Earth Expects
by Glory1863
Summary: History would say that Malcolm Reed was the greatest English admiral since Nelson, but that is of little comfort to Trip now that his beloved Mal is gone.
1. Green 135

Warnings: Futurefic. Deathfic. Tucker/Reed slash although only insofar as they have been a married couple for almost 40 years. This story is not about bedroom antics but rather about love, loss and coping.

The inspiration for this story came from _In the Company of Ghosts_ by Glass Shoe, which is a beautiful take on _These Are the Voyages . . ._ It's such a shame that the professional writers who **were** getting paid didn't choose to go there! What got to me was the description of Malcolm 33 years after Trip's death. I read military history in my spare time, so the description put me in mind of another English admiral - one who was also slender, of only medium height, one-armed, a legend in his own time and devoted to duty, with an unusual domestic situation that left him with a daughter whom he rarely saw but who was devoted to him. I know there are a lot of readers on this site from the UK, and I hope they won't mind an Anglophile Yankee playing around a bit with the legend of Admiral Lord Nelson.

"England expects that every man will do his duty." -- Signal sent to the British fleet by Admiral Lord Nelson just prior to the battle of Trafalgar, October 21, 1805

Earth Expects . . .

Captain Charles "Trip" Tucker, III, sat alone in the back of the passenger cabin of the commercial subspace shuttle from the King William V space port in London to the Carter-King space port in Atlanta. His traveling companions, Jonathan Archer, the retired Starfleet admiral and Trip's captain all those years ago on _Enterprise_; T-Pol, the Vulcan ambassador to Earth, former first officer of the _Enterprise_ and bond mate to Admiral Archer; and the Lady Jhamel Shran, life mate of the commanding general of the Andorian Imperial Guard, Lord Thy'lek Shran, and speaker of the Andorian Imperial Senate; had one by one and unobtrusively withdrawn to the observation deck of the shuttle to allow Trip to be alone with his memories yet still readily available should their company be desired. So much had happened in the last few weeks. There was so much to sort out, but one thing was already crystal clear: Trip's life would never be the same.

Trip had seen state funerals on the video channels - the body lying in state beneath the Capitol dome, the service at the National Cathedral, the solemn procession past the Lincoln Memorial, across the Potomac and into Arlington National Cemetery - and had always been impressed by the beauty, solemnity and majesty of it all, but American ceremonies couldn't hold a candle to what he had just seen and experienced firsthand in London. You had to admit, the Brits could do pageantry like no one else. Trip thought that his husband, Malcolm Reed, who was so proud of his English heritage, would have loved it. At least he hoped Mal would have loved it. In Trip's mind, no one could have deserved it more.

Sometimes, when a loved one dies, the one left behind, in their grief, is filled with anger toward the departed. "_How could you leave me? How do you expect me to deal with this alone?" _Whatever anger Trip might have felt, he wouldn't - couldn't - direct it at Malcolm. There was another, though. With some bitterness, he knew one person, though long dead, who most likely would not have been satisfied and would not have approved. Stuart Reed would have looked at the velvet-lined case displaying Malcolm's numerous decorations and would have complained that his son had never had what it took to win the Victoria Cross. The Starfleet equivalent that Malcolm **had** won would have been as worthless in the elder Reed's eyes as the Yank's Congressional Medal of Honor. Probably most appalling to Stuart would have been that it was neither the ensign of the Royal Navy nor even the Union Jack, but rather the flag of Starfleet that had draped the coffin bearing the shattered body of his son.

Trip wondered if Stuart would even have attended the funeral. Would it have mattered to him that military and civilian representatives from the countries of United Earth and the Federated Worlds had packed St. Paul's Cathedral to pay their respects to his son, the man who had lead the fleet that defeated the Romulans and thereby saved Earth? Would he have appreciated the sentiments of the everyday people who formed the massive crowd that lined the route of the funeral procession from Westminster Abbey to St. Paul's, who had stood in line for hours in the cold fall rain to view his son's bier, who signed books of condolence in the British embassies and consulates all over Earth or who left massive piles of flowers and candles at Starfleet Headquarters at The Presidio in San Francisco?

What would he have thought of the highly polished, deep lapis blue, stone sarcophagus that had been brought from Andoria, placed in the crypt below the dome of St. Paul's beside the graves of Admiral Lord Nelson and the Duke of Wellington, revered men who had saved England in an earlier time of deadly peril, and was inscribed "Admiral, The Right Honourable Malcolm, Viscount Reed"? The name had been followed by a myriad of letters - more letters than in a bowl of alphabet soup Trip had once joked - denoting other honors Malcolm had won. Would it finally have been enough for Stuart to acknowledge with pride that Malcolm was his son? Trip's mood turned even darker. Somehow he doubted that even death in a desperate battle would have won affection or respect from Stuart Reed. Trip just couldn't understand it. Mal was - had been - so easy to love, so loving in return, so worthy to be loved.

It was usually Malcolm who was the pessimistic one, but on this last voyage it had been Trip who had been uneasy from the start. By now, Trip was an experienced ship's captain (husband or not, Malcolm would have grounded him if he hadn't been). His ship, Starfleet's flagship, had the best engines, the best weaponry and the best crew in the fleet. So how could he explain to his admiral, to the man he dearly loved and to a proud Brit that he thought the ship's name was a bad omen? How could he be expected to be taken seriously talking like that at any time much less when the ship's name was _Victory_?

As the mission wore on and the hunt for the Romulan fleet lengthened, Trip's uneasiness had grown. He knew Malcolm had always been fascinated by military history, particularly British naval history. Hell, he'd even taught him to like it, and Trip had never considered history his strong suit. Malcolm had been able to show him its practical applications in modern space battles, something the instructors at the Academy had been spectacularly unable to achieve. That being said, it just seemed to Trip that Malcolm had become obsessed with the life, the battles and the death of Admiral Horatio Lord Nelson. Night after night, after Trip had made one last inspection of his ship and had come to flag quarters to turn in, he'd found Malcolm sitting in bed reading a biography of Nelson, a monograph on the battle of the Nile, a treatise on the battle of Cape St. Vincent or a book on the battle of Trafalgar. Malcolm always politely asked if the light was bothering him. Trip always lied and said he was fine. It wasn't his place to tell the Admiral he couldn't read in his own bed, and Trip couldn't bring himself to leave for his own quarters. Something, he didn't know what, was telling him that their time together was running out.

October 21, 2194 (Earth Standard), a day that will live in infamy or glory, depending on how one looks at it, had started off routinely enough, admiral and captain working together in companionable silence in the admiral's ready room. Malcolm looked up from the report he was reading. "Captain, if you are not otherwise engaged this evening, the other British-born officers of this ship and I would be honored if you would join us for dinner."

Trip had to smile at Malcolm's formality even after so many years together. "Love to," he answered, then thought for a second. "You're not havin' somethin' called 'bubble and squeak' or 'bangers and mash' or anything else with weird names like that, are ya?"

Malcolm laughed. "It's entirely up to Chef, of course, but I shouldn't think so, particularly when I tell him you'll be attending."

Trip went back to work, but then another question came to mind. "What's this for, Mal? Your birthday was last month. Guy Fawkes Day is next month, not that you'd have a dinner for that. You'd have live fire exercises and evict Mr. Rose from Weapons and Tactical in order to take part in them yourself." He paused for a moment. "Queen's birthday?"

"Rank has its privileges, Trip," Malcolm smiled. "And no, the Queen's birthday is in June. Today is Trafalgar Day." Malcolm went on to explain about the ritual dinner, but Trip didn't hear him. The tiny voice in the back of his head, the one he knew he should always listen to, had just screamed, "NO!" He felt cold all over and for the first time understood what Grandma Tucker had meant when she said she felt like someone had just walked on her grave.

Sure enough, the feeling of foreboding had been justified, for within the hour they received a message from the _Hood_, a fast frigate running recognizance out ahead of the fleet. "Enemy in sight." Several high frequency, narrow band, burst transmissions followed giving the course, speed, and strength of the Romulan fleet, but the last transmission had been garbled, and Communications had not been able to raise the ship again. Malcolm had the information relayed to Shran who was commanding the Andorian fleet. While some Andorians served in Starfleet, the Imperial Guard maintained its own forces that frequently worked in concert with Starfleet to the benefit of both. Relations between Shran and Reed were particularly good because a firm foundation of trust had been built up over the years. It was decided between them that they would try to bring the Romulans to battle at star chart sector Green 135.

Malcolm then called a council of war with his captains. Most, like Trip and Travis Mayweather, commanding the _Yorktown_, had served with him for years, knew his expectations and considered themselves a band of brothers. Scenarios were discussed, but what it came down to was that a captain couldn't go wrong in his admiral's eyes if he aggressively engaged the enemy and fought his ship well.

Malcolm took Travis aside as the captains were being beamed back aboard their ships. "I'd be most grateful if you'd take good care of your ship, Captain. I shouldn't fancy being the second British commander to lose Yorktown," he said with a slight smile.

"I'll do my best, sir," Travis acknowledged. "I have Lieutenant Shran at Weapons and Tactical. He's always making improvements to the weapons systems. Drives my chief engineer straight up the nearest bulkhead with his incessant demands for 'more power'." Begging the Admiral's pardon, but he puts me in mind of the Weapons and Tactical officer we had on the old _Enterprise_ when I was just a helmsman." Travis' dark eyes glittered in amusement. "Not to mention he has a healthy dose of his father's attitude."

"I shan't worry then, Travis. Godspeed." The transporter energized, and Travis disappeared in a cascade of shimmering lights.

Starfleet's armada came upon the Romulan fleet a bit sooner than expected. Corrected coordinates were transmitted to Shran who vowed to make all available speed but advised he doubted he would be able to bring his ships up in under 30 minutes. Until then, Malcolm's command would be outnumbered, outgunned and alone. Nonetheless, Malcolm had been ordered to bring about a general fleet engagement, if practicable. His civilian masters in the Federation Council believed, as Malcolm did himself, that the only way to bring the war to a successful conclusion was to destroy the Romulan fleet. Malcolm believed in his people, his ships and their weapons; he trusted Shran and the Imperial Guard, and he had been painfully taught as a child that Reeds obey orders and Reeds don't run. He believed they could manage for those 30 minutes. He ordered his fleet: "Engage the enemy."

Malcolm always led from the front and never ordered one of his captains to do something he would not be willing to do himself; thus, _Victory_ led one van of the Federation's fleet into the Romulan line. While the days of a ship flying an admiral's pennant were long gone, it was no secret, even to the Romulans, that _Victory_ was Starfleet's flagship and that the commanding admiral was aboard. This made _Victory_ a prime target, and the ship was soon taking fire from all sides. The other ships helped _Victory_ when they could, especially _Yorktown,_ but for the most part, they had their hands full as well.

Trip knew something had gone radically wrong in Engineering even before the report was made to the bridge that the warp drive was down and all that remained was auxiliary power from the impulse engine. With maneuverability suddenly severely restricted and shields and weapons systems failing, captain or not, there was only one place Trip wanted to be, one place where he felt he would be truly useful. He glanced at Malcolm who merely nodded and mouthed the word, "Go!"

When Trip got to Engineering, Commander MacKenzie, his chief engineer, gave him the damage report. It was bad, but the engineering staff was working quickly and purposefully with no signs of panic. Trip knew a few tricks and shortcuts to take to get the warp drive back on line in under the advertised start-up time, techniques that had somehow never made it into the manufacturer's manual. He and his team concentrated on the warp core. He left MacKenzie and Lieutenant Rose and their teams to deal with the shields and weapons.

Trip and his team worked furiously to make the needed repairs and had started Trip's patented abbreviated initiation sequence. Trip was aware the ship was still taking heavy fire, but he thought they would make it. He'd ordered a crewman to contact the bridge. "Tell the Admiral that he only has to hold on for 5 more minutes and he'll have full power."

Trip had turned his attention back to the warp core, was watching the readouts carefully and making minute adjustments to the intermix ratios when the crewman informed him, with deep concern in his voice, "Bridge doesn't answer, sir."

The minute the warp drive was solidly back on line, Trip was off for the bridge like a shot. He hoped that it was merely that communication relays had gone down; but he was an engineer, he knew what redundancies existed, especially for the bridge, and he knew there would be more to it than that. The little voice in the back of his head told him he wasn't going to like how much more.

When he got to the bridge, Damage Control was already working to clear the debris. Nonetheless, he could only gape at the damage in shock. He felt like his mind was swimming in molasses as he tried to make sense of what he saw. He found it particularly unnerving that the view screen was blank. No matter, he tried to tell himself. Malcolm had made them practice running on sensors only. He had said if submariners of the Royal Navy could do it, then Starfleet bloody well could. He heard a crewman telling him that Commander Hardy, the first officer, had things well in hand on the auxiliary bridge and that Shran and his fleet were up and engaged. He could tell that the amount of fire his ship was taking had dropped dramatically. He noted that the command chair seemed undamaged. Malcolm should be fine if he'd stayed there, but Malcolm didn't always stay there; in fact, whenever Trip came on the bridge, Malcolm would cede the seat to him. He was the ship's captain after all. Malcolm would stroll about the bridge, often pausing at the Weapons and Tactical station. He and Mr. Rose had come to an early understanding after a dismal performance on a combat simulation. Malcolm was not a backseat driver; he would intervene only if his assistance was requested. This station was simply the place where he felt the most comfortable. The memory caused Trip to turn his attention to Weapons and Tactical. To his horror, he found that the station no longer existed. The console was completely blown and part of the bulkhead had come down on it. It was then that he saw the discretely covered body and realized that the crewman giving him the damage report had never once mentioned the Admiral.

Trip tried to fight the panic as he headed toward the body. He brusquely interrupted the crewman, "Where is Admiral Reed?"

The crewman seemed confused. "He's in sickbay, sir. I assumed you'd already been told." Trip saw the distress in the crewman's eyes. Was it merely because he had made a mistake or was it something more? What else hadn't he been told? In the meantime, the crewman seemed to have gotten a handle on the situation. He gestured toward the covered body. "That's Mr. Rose, sir. I understand he did his best to protect the Admiral when all hell broke loose up here." The crewman actually blushed. "Pardon my language, sir. The last I heard, the Admiral was conscious, breathing and talking when they took him to sickbay." Trip tried to relax - that sounded like Mal - but there was still a look in the crewman's eyes that he found disturbing.

Trip fought back the desire to rush to sickbay. If Mal was anything even remotely resembling his usual "fine", then he'd be expecting a fairly detailed report on the course of the battle and the state of the ship. He'd best head to the auxiliary bridge for a word with Mr. Hardy first.

Malcolm lay quietly on the biobed in sickbay, his left hand holding the device that would release more pain medication into his system upon demand. Pinned to the blanket in the vicinity of his left hand was the device that would summon the chief medical officer, Dr. Beatty, although Beatty had, against Malcolm's wishes, assigned a corpsman to attend him. He could hear the hiss of the oxygen in the mask over his face. Malcolm had known, even before Dr. Beatty had gently confirmed it, that this time he was not "fine" and that he would never be "fine" again, at least not in this space/time continuum. He struggled to remember what, after everything he had survived, overcome or escaped in the past, had finally brought him to the end of his life. It was important for him to know, even if he couldn't explain why, even if it made no sense.

He remembered acquiescing to Trip's unspoken plea to be released to Engineering. He remembered the ship taking a tremendous beating such that Mr. Rose had finally requested his assistance at Weapons and Tactical. He'd never actually gotten the chance to assist, though. A salvo from a Romulan warbird had rocked the ship and taken out the view screen. He'd fought to maintain his balance in front of the Weapons and Tactical console. Both he and Mr. Rose had heard the ominous hum of feedback in the unit. Rose had pushed him away as the console exploded in what, for Malcolm, had indeed been a blinding flash. He'd felt the searing burns on his upper body but knew that Rose had suffered the worst of it. As he sprawled on the deck, he'd heard part of the bulkhead come down, had felt it mangle his outstretched right arm and pin him to the deck. The pain had overwhelmed him.

The next thing he remembered was the corpsman's quick, professional examination. The corpsman had explained that it was vital to get him to sickbay as soon as possible to treat the plasma burns and that the easiest way to do that, to free him from the debris, would be to complete the amputation of his right arm. He'd said "yes" without giving it much thought, after all Nelson had lost his right arm at a much younger age and had remained on active duty, and that at a time when functional prosthetics did not exist. Try as he might, he couldn't remember if he had been given an anesthetic. He certainly didn't recall the pain he was already in changing in any way, although perhaps he had cried out. He remembered the corpsman apologizing for hurting him. He remembered being moved. He remembered arriving in sickbay. He remembered Dr. Beatty telling him that the flash burns from the explosion had destroyed his eyes. He remembered Beatty telling him that the plasma burns were too extensive to be compatible with survival, that the best he could do would be to keep him comfortable until . . .

Like usual, he had had to fight for what he wanted which was to be kept conscious as long as possible. He had to know what was happening to his fleet, his ship and his people. He wanted desperately to say goodbye to Trip personally and properly. He'd left a recorded farewell message, of course, but he wanted to hear Trip's voice and to feel his touch just once more. He wanted Beatty and all of his staff to concentrate on the patients they could save and just leave him be.

As time passed, however, Malcolm wondered where Trip was. Was the battle going that badly? Was _Victory_'s damage so severe? Had no one told him of his injuries? Worse yet, had Trip himself been severely injured or killed? Would Beatty and his staff purposefully keep that information from him? God, not both of us, he thought. He had always known that his orders could mean death for himself and others - that was the nature of war and of command - but he'd always been able to convince himself, at least until today, that somehow he could keep Trip safe. He fought down the desire to send for him and acknowledged to himself that it was perhaps the hardest thing he had ever done in his life. Trip would come when he could. It would dishonor both of them to compel his presence before then.

It had taken a good hour for Trip to get things sorted out on _Victory_ and to form a coherent idea of how the battle was progressing, a good hour before he felt he could honorably give in to his desire to see Mal, a good hour to prepare himself to face his fears. When he entered sickbay, Dr. Beatty saw him immediately. He turned the care of the patient he was attending over to a corpsman and took Trip aside. "Captain, there are some things you need to know before you see the Admiral," Beatty said as gently as possible. Of course, there really is no good way to tell someone that a person he has loved heart and soul for the better part of 40 years will be dead before the day is done.

Trip stood silently beside Malcolm's biobed and struggled to get his emotions under control before he tried to speak. As much as he had wanted to see Mal's beautiful blue-gray eyes, he was actually glad that they were bandaged and that Mal couldn't see him. He knew that the look on his face was one of horror despite Beatty's warning. He knew his own eyes were haunted with the knowledge of what was to come. He knew furtive tears still managed to escape no matter how often he cuffed them away. He sought for a place where he could touch Mal without hurting him or disturbing the monitors and treatment lines. Finally, hesitantly, he put his hand on Malcolm's left shoulder.

"Trip?" Malcolm's voice was low and harsh. It was clearly quite painful for him to speak.

"I'm here, darlin'. How ya doin'?" Trip kicked himself mentally. _"What a stupid thing to ask! He's dying is how he's doing, ya jerk!" _Trip had never been good at this. He found he couldn't say more. He hated how his voice sounded. Instead, he slightly increased the pressure of his hand on Malcolm's shoulder.

"Not so fine this time, I'm afraid." Malcolm struggled a bit to breathe before he continued, "Do you have a report for me, Captain?"

Malcolm's question about "business" seemed to flip a switch in another part of Trip's brain. He found he had no difficulty imparting the requested information. "We've destroyed 12-14 of the Romulan warbirds." He knew that wasn't quite accurate. They'd outright destroyed maybe half that number and disabled the rest. The Romulans had blown those up themselves. They hadn't bothered to rescue the crews first and had refused any aid from either Starfleet or the Imperial Guard.

"And our people, Trip? What have we lost?"

"_Akagi_,_ Potemkin and Bonhomme Richard_ are done for, though most of the crews were brought off. Shran's lost _Kumari_ again and _'Fields of Fire'_." Trip never could pronounce the Andorian name of the latter ship and settled for the translation. "The fate of the crews is still unclear. The _Jhamel_ has taken some hits but is no worse off than us. _Victory_ will get us home, Mal, I promise ya, even if it takes the last roll of duct tape and the last stick of chewin' gum we got." Almost as an afterthought he added, "_Yorktown_'s in better shape than we are. Shran's boy is pretty damn good. Almost as good as you were at his age." His comment was rewarded by a slight smile from Malcolm.

Trip's comlink beeped, and Commander Hardy reported, "Captain, General Shran says we can expect some company shortly. He says there's three warbirds trying to do an end run around us. He's sending General Telev and the _Tel'kien_ over to give us a hand, and Captain Mayweather says he'll be by directly."

"See to _Victory,_ Trip. I'll be fine for awhile yet." Malcolm strove valiantly to hide his pain and hoped that his last words to Trip wouldn't turn out to be a lie.

_Victory _came under intense fire again. Malcolm, despite his pain, struggled to sense how well the weapons systems were responding. Under normal circumstances he could do this as well as Trip could assess the engines. As the attending corpsman made sure that Malcolm was secured to the biobed, he heard the Admiral murmur, "_Victory_!_ Victory_!How you distract my poor brain!"

As time passed, Malcolm found he was grateful that Dr. Beatty had insisted on assigning the corpsman to him. He hadn't wanted to be trouble to anyone, had not wanted to use his rank to unfair advantage when so many others with a better prognosis were hurt, but he finally had to admit that he needed help and was glad to have it. One minute he felt desperately hot and wanted a cool drink or ice chips and to be fanned. The next minute he was freezing and wanted another warmed blanket put over his lower body. He found the hiss of the oxygen to be deeply annoying, particularly since it didn't seem to make breathing any easier. He tried always to remember to say "please" and "thank you", but he was getting so tired and knew that sometimes he forgot.

In time, the firing dwindled and _Victory_ seemed to be staying on an even keel. Trip suddenly burst into the cubicle. "Ya did it, Mal! They're runnin'! They've turned tail, and they're skedaddlin' back where they came from, what's left of 'em! We haven't lost another ship and neither has Shran!"

Malcolm smiled weakly. "Trip, listen to me." He said it as strongly as he could to get the ebullient Trip's attention. "There's an ion storm coming, I can feel it. The fleet must stay together. Don't go haring after them. Stay together. Look after one another. This is my last order to you. From now on, you work to Shran. Thank God I have done my duty!"

The momentary joy Trip had taken in what he considered to be Malcolm's great victory fled as he realized just had ashen the usually pale Malcolm had become, how dusky his usually pink, sweet lips. Malcolm finally pushed the oxygen mask off his face. For what he wanted now, it was more hindrance than help. "Trip, please don't jettison me." His voice was little more than a painful whisper. It was the first time Trip could remember Mal ever sounding like he was begging, and it tore at his heart.

"Never, darlin'. Don't you worry none; _Victory_ and I will take you home. Ya got my word on it."

"Kiss me, Trip."

Trip leaned over and very gently kissed Malcolm on the lips. Dr. Beatty had come into the cubicle and had noted that both Malcolm's respiratory rate and heart rate had significantly fallen. He unobtrusively removed the monitoring devices and treatment lines. Trip understood what this meant. He didn't want Mal to think that he had had to order him to kiss him, so he leaned over again and kissed him ever so lightly on his forehead.

"Who's there?" Malcolm's voice was barely audible.

"It's me, darlin'. It's Trip."

"God bless you, Trip."

Beatty and the corpsman had left the cubicle. Trip pulled up the corpsman's vacated chair and sat to Malcolm's left, his hand now over Malcolm's. After a few minutes, Trip heard Malcolm whisper one last time, "Thank God I have done my duty." With a quiet sigh, Malcolm's soul left his ravaged body.

Trip knew his beloved Mal was now beyond any further physical or emotional pain. Still holding Malcolm's hand, he put his head on Malcolm's chest and cried until he thought there could be no more tears. It wasn't fair! Mal had just won a tremendous battle, had saved Earth, and as far as Trip was concerned, was the greatest English admiral since Nelson, but he wouldn't get to enjoy a moment of acclaim or savor a second of satisfaction. Trip wasn't sure that in all his life he ever had. When Mal was little, Stuart Reed had set the prerequisites for his love so high that no matter how hard he tried, Mal could never meet them, and eventually Stuart had disowned him. He'd been left to always doubt the merits of his accomplishments, to doubt his own worth, and Trip wasn't sure, even now, that all of his years of love for Mal had remedied that, if it could even **be** remedied. And now it was too late to either remedy or to know.

Trip sat in Commander MacKenzie's office in Engineering and tried for at least the sixth time to record the log entry. He knew it would be played on all the news channels on Earth and probably placed in the archive of sound recordings in the Library of Congress, so he had to get it right in order to honor Mal. He sighed deeply and pressed the button, "Partial firing continued until 1630 hours, when a victory having been reported to the Right Honorable Lord Reed, K.B., Fleet Admiral, he died of his wounds." He stopped the recording and played it back. Yes, this time would do. This time he sounded sad but professional. Now he could turn his attention to getting _Victory_ and Mal home as promised. He thought the battle was over; he had no idea that another was about to begin, no idea of how hard it would be to fulfill his promise.


	2. Debts

Trip had insisted on helping prepare Malcolm's body for burial, washing him, clothing him in his dress uniform and carefully brushing his hair. He'd clipped the errant curl of hair that always fell onto Malcolm's forehead whenever his hair was mussed. He wanted - needed - this memento and finally understood his Grandma Tucker's elderly neighbor who had Victorian mourning jewelry made from the hair of a distant ancestor who had died in the ill-fated charge at Gettysburg. It wasn't until he had gently twisted the lock of hair around his fingers that he realized just how much silver there was in Malcolm's formerly dark hair.

He'd seen Malcolm comfortably placed in the casing for a photon torpedo and felt that this was an eminently suitable coffin for his beloved. On Malcolm's chest, he'd placed an antique silver picture frame bearing a photograph of the two of them on their wedding day. Malcolm had spent so much of his life feeling alone, even when surrounded by others; he didn't want him to spend any part of eternity feeling that way too. He'd considered placing a phase pistol - one that Malcolm had designed of course - in Malcolm's left hand. After all, one could believe what one wished about the afterlife, but no one knew for sure what happened after death. He just wanted Malcolm to be safe. It had taken a great deal of persuasion on the part of Ensign Winfield, the late Lieutenant Rose's second, to talk him out of it. He'd left the broad gold band on Malcolm's left ring finger. To the best of his knowledge, Malcolm had never removed it since the day he (Trip) had placed it there. Before the casing was closed, Trip took one last look at Malcolm. He seemed so peaceful, as if he were only sleeping. Trip could handle that. He lightly kissed Malcolm's forehead one last time. "Sweet dreams, darlin'." He just couldn't bring himself to say goodbye.

Trip had returned to Engineering when his comlink sounded. There was an incoming transmission from Starfleet headquarters. "Hey, Mac, mind if I take it in there?" He pointed to Commander MacKenzie's office.

"If you can find the data terminal, Captain, you're welcome to it. I was about to grab some dinner anyway. You want anything?"

"No, thanks. Not hungry." He'd found the data terminal without difficulty, although there were haphazard piles of PADDs and various mechanical odds and ends on just about every flat surface. MacKenzie's office wasn't usually this much of a disaster area, but he hadn't had much chance to clean up after all the gyrations the ship had been through. Trip smiled faintly. This had to be why Malcolm hadn't stayed in engineering, although he clearly had had the talent for it, at least when it came to EM fields, phase weapons and weapons of mass destruction generally. The obsessively tidy Malcolm just couldn't take the clutter.

Once he'd cleaned off a chair and got himself situated, he had the transmission routed to him. He had expected the message to be from one of the admirals back at headquarters, but who he got instead was a smarmy Lieutenant from the Public Affairs Office, a man to whom he uncharacteristically took an immediate dislike. Maybe it was because this person delivered his condolences on the death of Admiral Reed with about as much sincerity as a pre-owned personal transportation device salesman pitching a deal. Maybe it was because this person seemed to have no clue that Admiral Reed was anything more to Trip than a commanding officer. Now really, was there anyone in Starfleet who **didn't** know he and Mal had been married for almost 40 years? They'd never bothered to hide it. He forced himself to listen to this person, this Lieutenant Rivers, and was appalled by what he heard.

Trip knew that it was Starfleet's custom, as it was for various branches of the military on United Earth, to bury its dead on the battlefield where they had fallen. Despite this, he had assumed that Malcolm's wishes would be respected because of his rank and that his wishes would be respected as Malcolm's next of kin. It was a rude awakening when he found he had been mistaken in his assumptions.

With entirely too much pleasure, as Trip interpreted it, Rivers told him that Starfleet was sending a video unit out to record the funeral service for Admiral Reed and the consignment of his body to space. Now, of course, the service had to be fairly generic so no one would be offended, and it had to fit into certain broadcast time constraints. That it would offer no comfort to Malcolm's soul or to his surviving friends and colleagues apparently wasn't a consideration. What mattered was that it could be used as a recruitment tool and perhaps worked into a biopic on the Admiral that Starfleet was already pitching to the studios.

When Rivers finally stopped to take a deep breath, Trip took the opportunity, as an earlier age would have said, to go ballistic. Admiral Reed was not going to be dumped in space; he was coming home to Earth for a proper, dignified funeral and burial. Trip had promised him that, and he was going to keep his promise. And another thing, nobody was making a cheesy movie of the week/direct to video-type biopic about him either. Admiral Reed was a very private man who would never have authorized such a venture had he still been alive. He deserved to be treated with greater respect.

Rivers clearly couldn't understand Trip's position. He took it as a personal affront that Trip didn't approve of Starfleet's plans. He also made it clear that Trip had nothing to say in the matter. The decision had been made at a much higher level. The minute Rivers closed the channel, Trip started working his way up the chain of command to that higher level. He couldn't believe this was happening.

Three hours later, and following several conversations that basically told him the same thing, he finally discovered that it had indeed been Rivers' idea and that the creep had been devious enough to pitch it to the one admiral who would go for it hook, line and sinker.

Admiral Sir Peregrine Scott (he had inherited his title, not won it) had always been jealous of Malcolm. He had always felt that this upstart with no pedigree (indeed, hadn't his family disowned him?) should never have risen above the rank of lieutenant, much less been made a fleet admiral, but had used his connection to Admiral Jonathan Archer (a mere Yank for whom Scott had no respect either) to get above his station in life. Scott believed that that rank, and the power and the glory that went with it, rightfully belonged to none other than himself. He believed that, through a series of misfortunes for which he, of course, was not to blame, he had been shunted off to a desk job in San Francisco (the Yankee land of fruits and nuts) instead of given command of the fleet. He'd always gotten his little digs in toward Malcolm at every opportunity and particularly disparaged his marriage to Trip. If Reed had had any sense of propriety, Scott had once said, he wouldn't have married a redneck Yankee cracker. Malcolm had heard the remark (as he was most certainly meant to) and had calmly corrected Scott: His spouse was a redneck **Rebel** cracker, and if Admiral Scott planned on spending any time south of the Mason-Dixon line he would do well to learn the difference, unless of course he wanted to be jailed on a charge of incitement to riot. Scott was now quite pleased with himself. He'd have the last laugh on Reed. He took great glee in explaining to Trip that he would accept Starfleet's plans or face disciplinary action. If he were in the brig, then he couldn't very well attend the funeral, could he? He chortled as he closed the channel.

Trip was stunned. He hadn't wanted to do this, had wanted to take care of things himself, but now he was desperate and exhausted and knew he needed help to keep his promise to Malcolm. He sent one final message. The minute he saw Jonathan Archer's face, he tearfully launched into his plea. "Jon, ya gotta help me! They won't let me bring Mal home. They're gonna dump 'im in space. They say if I make any more trouble, they'll bust me down to crewman, throw me in the brig and keep me from goin' to Mal's funeral."

Archer had given up on expressing his condolences to Trip on Malcolm's death. "Whoa, Trip, who won't let you bring Malcolm home?"

"Starfleet, that's who. Specifically, Admiral Scott. He wants to dump Mal in space."

"I wouldn't characterize it as 'dump', Trip. Burial in space is pretty much Starfleet's tradition."

"You don't understand, Jon! Mal wanted to come home. He asked me not to jettison him, and I promised I wouldn't. It was like he was beggin'. Ya know Mal hardly ever asked for anythin' personal, and Reeds don't beg. Well, Tuckers ain't got a problem beggin'. Ya gotta help me, Jon! Ya gotta help me keep my promise to Mal!"

"Trip, I thought Malcolm wanted to be buried at sea. Burial in space isn't that different."

"He wanted to be buried at sea 'cause he thought it would be his last chance to win his dad's approval. His dad died long ago. That don't matter now. His dad wouldn't allow him to be buried with the rest of the Reeds, so Mal thought he'd end up in an unmarked grave somewhere not even home. He thought it would be overgrown with weeds and forgotten, that no one would visit or put flowers on it, even for Remembrance Day. We taught him he had another family, a family that cared for 'im and wouldn't forget 'im like that. You, me, T'Pol, Hoshi, Travis, Phlox, everybody on the old _Enterprise._ He trusted all of us. Those of us who are left can't let him down!"

"Look, Jon, I gotta bring him home! I gotta keep him safe! If he's floatin' 'round in space, the Romulans or some other species that decides to hate our guts could find 'im and make a trophy of 'im. I could deal with burial at sea as long as they told me the coordinates. I just have to know where he is! I want to be able to visit 'im and talk to him. I don't care how weird that sounds! It's somethin' I gotta do!" Trip couldn't talk anymore. He put his head down on the desk and sobbed.

"OK, Trip. I'll see what I can do with Starfleet. Since Malcolm was an English subject and a peer of the realm, perhaps Air Marshal Knight could give me some pointers on how to work it from that end too. He's a friend, and he held Malcolm in high esteem, so maybe he'll help. I can't promise you more, though."

Trip raised his head from the desk and sniffled. Defiance returned to his blue eyes. "That's OK, Jon. I understand. I know you'll do your best, but I'm telling ya right now, if this don't work out, I'm gonna be needin' a lawyer."

Archer chuckled. "Do you suppose you could let me work on one thing at a time?" Then he turned serious. "I'm very sorry about Malcolm, Trip. He really was extraordinary. If there's anything else you need, anything else I can do, don't hesitate to call."

"Just help me bring 'im home. That's all I need right now."

"I'm on it. Now, you get something to eat and get some sleep. You look like hell!"

"'Night, Jon." Trip closed the channel. He wasn't hungry, but he did put his head back on the desk and let the sound of the impulse engine lull him to sleep. That was how MacKenzie found him in the morning. That was where he was when the short, terse message from Starfleet came in informing him that Her Britannic Majesty's government requested the return of the body of Admiral Lord Reed to Earth at Starfleet's earliest convenience. _Victory_ was to make all possible speed to the Royal Navy's space port at Portsmouth. Trip was elated. With Jon's help, he'd won. He was bringing Mal home just as he promised. What else could go wrong? It's amazing that a man of mature years, as Trip was, would even ask that question. Hadn't he figured out yet that if you asked, you were bound to find out? In spades.

Lieutenant Russell, the chief communications officer, knew that the death of Admiral Reed had hit everybody pretty hard, not just the crew of _Victory._ Even the Andorians seemed stunned by it. General Shran had issued a surprisingly gracious and moving (based on what Russell knew of Andorians) General Order to the combined fleets to memorialize Reed's death. In it he praised Reed as exemplifying the best of the warrior traditions of both Earth and Andoria and characterized him as a deeply honorable man with whom it had been his great pleasure to serve. On a personal note, he grieved the lost of a trusted friend. As astonishing as the transmission was, Russell wasn't sure how much comfort it was to Captain Tucker, who of course, had been the hardest hit of all.

Russell was truly worried about his captain who seemed to move about _Victory_ like a wraith. True, he met with Mr. Hardy on a regular basis, and sometimes with the other department heads as well, and regularly visited the patients still in sickbay, but his fun-loving, optimistic spirit seemed to have died with the Admiral. Rumor had it the only thing the Captain ever took from the mess hall, even after repairs made it possible for Chef to serve hot food again, was coffee and that the last time anyone saw him asleep was early in the morning of the day after the battle when he had been found in the Chief Engineer's office. In fact, Engineering seemed to be where he spent most of his time. His quarters had been damaged in the battle, but he had removed them from the list of priority repairs. Flag quarters were undamaged, but Russell could understand how his captain couldn't bear to enter them.

What really concerned him, though, was the rumor he had been able to confirm for himself. He had taken a turn as one of the honor guards for the Admiral's coffin down in the cargo bay. It had been about 2200 when Captain Tucker had appeared, pulled a chair up beside the coffin and spent the next half hour discussing the ship, its crew and the fleet as if the Admiral were still alive and had requested his daily briefing. It hadn't been a whispered conversation, and Tucker hadn't dismissed the honor guard. Finally, he had said, "'Night, Mal. Sweet dreams, darlin'", and had gone. Now, Russell considered himself to be a pretty tough, no-nonsense kind of guy, so the wetness he felt on his cheeks must have come from some overhead leak, one that selectively occurred only where the honor guard stood. Yeah, and he really wasn't afraid either, just "concerned."

The next day, Mr. Hardy had sent Russell to the transporter room to meet General Shran and serve as his escort on the ship. Repairs were nearly completed that would allow _Victory_ to safely go to warp and return to Earth. Officially, Shran had some last minute instructions for Tucker and had chosen to deliver them himself. Unofficially, it was an entirely different story.

Russell heard the hum of the machinery and saw the shimmering lights as General Shran materialized on the platform. He had never actually met Shran before, had only seen pictures, and was surprised to find that the commanding general of the Andorian Imperial Guard, the man with such a fearsome reputation, was, even with his antennae, only about the same height as Admiral Reed and nearly as thin. He wore the royal blue service uniform of the Guard with a white mourning sash running diagonally across his chest and no ornamentation save for collar devices indicating his rank. He had a small carrier slung over his shoulder, and as he saluted the Starfleet seal on the wall behind the transporter controls, Russell could have sworn he heard the sound of glass bottles clinking together.

"General Thy'lek Shran of the Andorian Imperial Guard requesting permission to come aboard, Lieutenant." He made no move to leave the platform.

Russell recovered from his surprise and returned the salute. "Permission granted, sir. Welcome aboard. May I give you a hand with that?" He indicated the carrier.

"Thank you, but no. I am afraid that is classified material, Lieutenant, and you do not have the clearance." Russell was surprised by the amusement in Shran's large brown eyes, that was until he heard what was definitely the sound of glass bottles being jostled about as Shran stepped off the platform. Shran immediately turned serious. "I regret the death of Admiral Reed, Lieutenant. He was a fine man."

"That he was, sir," Russell wholeheartedly agreed. "If you'll follow me please, I'll take you to the Captain."

"I am to be allowed in Engineering, then, as long as I have my 'honor guard'?" Shran's voice carried a trace of amusement again. When he saw Russell's look of mingled surprise and confusion, he clarified, "Knowing Captain Tucker as I do, I would expect Engineering to be his - preferred base of operations - under the circumstances, and while Ti'er (Lord) Malcolm might consider me a valuable ally, that would not preclude him from banning me from Engineering without a security detail which he would, of course, call an 'honor guard' to prevent any hurt feelings."

Russell still wasn't sure what to make of Shran. He certainly wasn't what he had expected. "Engineering it is, sir, but I'm Communications, not Security."

"Whatever you say, Lieutenant." Shran smiled.

When they arrived in Engineering, Shran was aware that the pace of work slowed considerably as the officers and crew were trying, as discretely as possible, to see him and hear what he had to say. He didn't need his ultrasensitive antennae to know this. It was the same on Andorian ships. He took the opportunity to once again praise the late Admiral Reed. "Captain, Admiral Reed's death is a great loss. He was a loyal friend to Andoria, to the Guard and to myself personally. He cannot be replaced." Brown eyes met blue eyes in a look of deep understanding that needed no words. Shran then became all business again. "There are a few matters I should like to discuss with you privately before you leave for Earth."

Trip nodded. "Mac, ya mind if a borrow your office again?"

"Be my guest, sir. I think it's picked up enough for company." MacKenzie smiled. He was one of the senior officers who was in on at least what one of the items of discussion was, and he heartily approved.

The two men found seats and Shran opened the conversation. "I have two requests to make of you, Captain. I will start with this as it is the easier of the two." Shran was unusually reticent, enough so that even in his distressed state Trip noticed it.

"What can I do for ya, Thy'lek?"

"I understand you are leaving for Earth soon and you would like to take _Yorktown_ as an escort?"

"Yeah, repairs should be finished by tonight or tomorrow morning at the latest. Still, I wouldn't want to run into any hostiles in the shape we're in. _Yorktown's_ in good condition, Travis would be hurt if I asked for another ship, and besides, his Weapons and Tactical officer should be able to keep us both outta trouble. Travis speaks quite highly of him, as did Mal. You ain't gonna refuse me now, are ya, Thy'lek?"

Shran was smiling at the compliment paid to his son. "No, Captain, I am not. I would, however, like to ask your permission to send General Telev and the _Tel'kien_ as a second escort."

"You're the - fleet commander - Thy'lek. You don't gotta ask my permission for nothin'."

"True, I do not," Shran acknowledged with a smirk. "However, unlike some of your colleagues at Starfleet, if the rumor is to be believed, when it comes to his "Ceremony of Remembrance", I do believe that you speak with the voice of Ti'er Malcolm. For that reason, I seek your permission."

"Why thank you, Thy'lek. I'm much obliged. As for the Andorian escort, Mal would like that, I'm sure. He'd consider it a great honor, as I do. Thank you for offerin'." Trip was dangerously close to tears.

"It helps me repay a debt," Shran said simply.

Trip seemed a bit puzzled. "You said you had two requests, Thy'lek. What's the other?"

Shran looked down at the desk for a moment and sighed. Normally a man of action, he was distinctly uncomfortable, not sure how to proceed, not sure how this very Andorian request would be viewed by his "pinkskin" friend. "Do you remember when Talas died?" he asked at last.

"Do I remember?" Trip was amazed by the question. "I thought you were gonna kill Jon. You damn near died yourself. Stuff like that's a little hard to forget! Why ya askin'?" Trip was thoroughly confused now. What did this have to do with Mal?

"Perhaps you also remember that I wanted to take a vial of her blood back to Andoria to place in the Wall of Heroes, the shrine to our honored dead?" Shran thought he saw a glimmer of understanding in Trip's eyes, but hurried on with his request in case understanding should lead to outrage. He was fairly certain that what he was requesting was not the human way.

"If possible, I would like a vial of Ti'er Malcolm's blood or a lock of his hair to place in the Wall of Heroes. He was an honorary member of the Imperial Guard, and I do not play a political game when I say he was a friend to Andoria and to the Guard. The request is made with respect, Captain, respect for our traditions and respect for Ti'er Malcolm. If you would allow it, it would also help me repay a personal debt to him."

"Of course you wouldn't do anything disrespectful, Thy'lek! How could you think . . .?" Trip sighed in exasperation. "We'll need to stop in sickbay and have a word with Dr. Beatty. I'm sure somethin' can be arranged. I can't tell ya how much your kindness means to me, Thy'lek. Mal would be overwhelmed by it too, 'specially considerin' what Starfleet wanted to do to 'im!" A sudden thought came to Trip, and he smiled. "Ya know, if Jon hadn't come through, maybe _Victory,_ Mal and I could have defected to Andoria."

Shran laughed. "I do not know how Ti'er Malcolm put up with you, Trip. You are such a - what is the word? - smart-ass!"

"Mama Tucker always said it took one to know one - sir!" For the first time in days, Trip actually laughed. "Come on. Let's collect your 'honor guard' and head down to sickbay."

"One last thing, Captain. After sickbay, we will head for the captain's mess where we will eat our fill of the special menu Chef has prepared, where we will drink good Andorian ale (Shran patted the carrier) until we are drunk and where we will remember Ti'er Malcolm with laughter as well as tears. I **will** make that an order, if necessary."

"You throwin' an Irish wake for Mal, Thy'lek?"

"I am sure I have no idea what you are talking about, Captain," Shran said stiffly. "This is an ancient Andorian custom. Why you 'pinkskins' believe you thought of everything first is beyond me!"

As it turned out, Dr. Beatty had anticipated Shran's request. A lock of Malcolm's hair had been carefully secured in a titanium suture ligature and pressed between oversized glass slides. Someone in Engineering had taken gold wiring and solder and created a frame for the slides. "Thanks, Doc," Trip murmured quietly as he watched Shran place the carefully wrapped memento in the breast pocket of his uniform jacket. Trip didn't realize, although Dr. Beatty did, that the packet rested over the main chamber of Shran's heart.

When they arrived in the Captain's mess, Chef had already arranged an extensive buffet consisting mainly of Trip's favorite foods: Pan-fried catfish seasoned with cayenne pepper and other Cajun spices, meatloaf, prime rib, mashed potatoes with mushroom gravy, broccoli florets, pecan pie, Key lime pie, Rocky Road ice cream and cherry-flavored shaved ice (Shran didn't really see the point to that dessert). There was also pineapple upside-down cake and pineapple sorbet in honor of Malcolm. As Trip took a piece of the cake, he wished there were more foods, even the ones with funny names, that Malcolm had liked, but he'd never made any special requests of Chef. Chef knew about the pineapple only because Trip had told him.

With Trip's help, Shran set a place for Malcolm at the head of the table. The other senior officers joined them for lunch, joined in the toasts to Malcolm and joined in the story-telling about their respected and beloved admiral. Eventually, though, only Shran and Trip remained. Something was nagging at Trip, and he finally realized what it was. "Thy'lek, what did you mean when you said you were in debt to Mal? He never mentioned anything like that to me."

"I mean no disrespect, Trip, but he would not, would he? Being an intensely private man himself, he would not trumpet the failings of others, particularly those of a friend." Seeing Trip's confusion and perhaps because his tongue was loosened somewhat by drink or perhaps because he felt that this was something Trip needed to know about Malcolm, he volunteered, "He saved my family, Trip."

"Somebody was gunnin' for ya'll?" Now, Trip knew Shran had enemies, some of them even Andorian, but it wasn't sportin' to go after a guy's family, and even though Jhamel was politically powerful, Trip always saw her as gentle, unassuming and kind. Talla and Tren were just kids. He'd forgotten for the moment that Tren was Weapons and Tactical officer on the _Yorktown_.

"No, Trip, nothing like that. Well, at least that was not how Ti'er Malcolm came to my assistance."

If Trip hadn't been a bit "overserved" himself, he might not have pursued the matter, but he was and he did. "Well, Thy'lek, just what was it Mal did?"

"He kept **me** from doing something that would have destroyed my family."

"He kept **you** from hurtin' your family? What the hell ya talkin' 'bout, Thy'lek? You adore your family! Anybody even look wrong at Miss Jhamel or Miss Talla and you'd have their head. **You** wouldn't harm them." Drunk or sober, Trip would be scandalized by the thought.

"I am touched that you think so highly of me, Captain," Shran said with the sarcasm for which he was famous. "It is a shame that I will have to set you straight, but perhaps that is part of my debt to Ti'er Malcolm as well."

"The House of Shran is not an ancient house of the warrior caste like Talas' family or Lord Tel'kien's. We have always had members in the military and occasionally even in the Guard; indeed, the first Thy'lek Shran was captain of the icebreaker _Kumari_ that was the first to circumnavigate Andoria, but, I repeat, we are not of the warrior caste. Nonetheless, I hoped Tren would follow in my footsteps in the Guard, would follow the way of the warrior. You see, I believe my son is promising as well." Shran favored Trip with a small, ironic smile.

"Tren, however, had other ideas. He grew up hearing all the stories about _Enterprise_, its captain, its Weapons and Tactical officer and even its Chief Engineer." Again, there was that small, ironic smile. "He informed me that he wanted to join Starfleet instead of the Guard. I was not amused. Our 'discussions' on the subject became quite heated, as you might imagine, Andorians being a passionate people. I made a quite serious threat, one I might even have carried out. As I said, I felt Tren was promising, and he proved it in his pursuit of an ally against me."

"Oh my God!" Trip breathed softly. He had a feeling he knew who the ally was and what the threat had been. If things were as he suspected, Tren couldn't have chosen a better ally.

"All unknowing, I came to Earth for strategic planning meetings with Starfleet. At the conclusion, Ti'er Malcolm invited me to dinner at his favorite pub in Leicester." Shran poured Trip another round then leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and narrated the scene that ran through his mind.

It was a pleasant dinner in an unpretentious, family-oriented establishment. He had a large packet of fish and chips and a bitter, dark ale. He wasn't sure what Malcolm was having. When Malcolm told him its name, he thought he must surely have misunderstood, but the universal translator made no more sense. According to the device, Malcolm was eating something called "amphibian in an excavation."

Malcolm took a swallow of ale. "General Shran, do you have a problem with Starfleet?"

Shran smiled in a rather predatory fashion. It wasn't like Ti'er Malcolm to make a tactical error like that. Well, as a matter of fact, he did have some issues which he and Malcolm went on to discuss in a constructive manner.

"Let me rephrase the question, General Shran. Do you have a **personal** problem with Starfleet?"

_Zerit! _(Damn!) It suddenly dawned on Shran what Malcolm meant, had meant all along and why he'd been invited to dinner in the first place. He'd been lured into the ambush like the rawest of recruits thanks to his son. "Ti'er Malcolm, I must apologize for my son. He certainly did not have my permission to trouble you with a family matter. I will see to it that he is punished for his insolence."

Malcolm carefully put down his silverware. His normally pale complexion had gone totally white and his usually warm, blue-gray eyes were now a cold gray. In a voice as icy as the winter wind on Andoria, Malcolm said, "What you do in your own home is, of course, your concern, General, but I never again want you to apologize for your son in my hearing! If I have an issue with your son, I will take it up with him personally, and if I desire his apology, then I will demand it of him. It is not your place to apologize for him!"

Shran had never seen Malcolm so angry. Worse yet, he wasn't sure exactly what had set him off. He didn't like being so off balance, but before he could reply, he saw Malcolm drop his eyes and a faint blush creep over his cheeks such that the term "pinkskin" really did apply to him.

"Please forgive me, Thy'lek. My outburst was uncalled for, especially as you are my guest and had no way of knowing that this subject is a painful one for me. I assure you, from my perspective, your son showed laudable initiative, not insolence. May I ask why you object to his joining Starfleet?" Malcolm's voice and countenance were once again warm and gentle.

"You know Andoria is a caste-based society. Whatever personal prominence Jhamel and I may have, our family is not of the warrior caste. The Imperial Guard is held in high esteem on Andoria. I believe Tren has the talent and ability to follow in my footsteps, to be better than I am in fact, to improve his station in life. This is what I want for my son. I am sorry, Ti'er Malcolm, but I do not believe Starfleet can do that for him."

"Thy'lek, I do understand that you only want the best for your son, but with respect, do you know what your son wants for his life? Are you certain that the Imperial Guard, and only the Imperial Guard, can provide it for him? Might it not be that regardless of his abilities, whatever prominence he achieves in the Guard will be ascribed to the fact that he is the son of the commanding general? On the other hand, might he not be moved to a dangerous recklessness in an attempt to prove he made it on his own?"

"Are you certain the same would not happen in Starfleet?" Shran challenged.

"I cannot promise it, Thy'lek, so I will not, but I also think your son believes he is more likely to rise or fall on his own merits in Starfleet and that that is important to him. You love him and value him. Please listen to him - really listen to what he wants for his life - and trust him. If I can be certain of anything, then I am certain that whatever choice he makes will not dishonor you or your family."

"Malcolm, why were you so angry before? Why is this so important to you? You speak with an Andorian's passion. I do not understand."

"My father did what you are threatening to do, and it destroyed our family. He wanted me to join the Royal Navy as generations of Reed men had done before me. I wanted to join Starfleet. He said that if I disobeyed him, if I followed my dream instead of his, then he would disown me. I applied to Starfleet Academy and was accepted. I left my father's house for San Francisco the day I turned 18. I've never been back. I would not have been welcome."

"That's what's sticky about an ultimatum. If you choose to issue one, then you must be willing to accept that when offered your way or the highway, some people, people you may love, will choose the highway. I know how much you love your family, Thy'lek. I would hate to see you make the mistake my father did. Don't force Tren to choose your dream over his in order to secure your love and respect. Don't force Jhamel and Talla to choose between you and Tren, between a husband and a son, between a father and a brother. Even if they choose you, they will come to despise you in the end."

Shran opened his eyes and sat straight up. "I took Ti'er Malcolm's advice. I listened - really listened - to Tren. It was as Ti'er Malcolm had said, so I gave him my blessing to follow his dream with Starfleet. He could have worse mentors than Admiral Archer and Ti'er Malcolm. Jhamel and Talla also confirmed his warning. So you see, Trip, my family is the debt I owe to Malcolm."

"He knew how ya get 'bout debts, Thy'lek. All he'd want is for ya to continue to be a good husband and dad, no more than what your own honor demands anyway."

"It took great courage for him to speak of so personal and painful an experience."

"You know Mal. He'd do anythin' to protect those he values." Trip's voice was a mixture of pride and grief.

"Thy'lek, what do Andorians believe about the afterlife?"

Shran poured another round for Trip and then explained, "The soul of a warrior like Ti'er Malcolm would go to the Warriors' Hall. I believe some on Earth would call it Valhalla. There they feast and drink and are made whole and young again, though with the knowledge of their years. The Andorii believe that warships have a soul as well. They go to the Hidden Harbor. The warriors and their ships join the Silver Fleet in service to the White Lord and will battle the Dark Lord and his minions until the end of days."

"Mal don't got a ship, Thy'lek. _Victory_ wasn't destroyed." Trip was drunk enough to find this extremely distressing.

"By coincidence, my _Kumari_, the one I commanded when you and Malcolm were on _Enterprise_, lacks a captain. I am sure the crew is

spoiling to enter the fight. They would be honored to serve with Ti'er Malcolm." In a darker tone, Shran continued, "If anyone should be so misguided as to object . . . Well, Talas would not hesitate to point out the error of their ways."

"As long as that's all she does. I don't want her makin' no 'overtures' to Mal just 'cause he's captain!"

Normally, Shran would have been outraged by the comment, but he knew Trip was too drunk to realize what he had implied, not only about his (Shran's) long ago liaison with Talas, but about Malcolm as well.

"It was my experience that Talas never made an 'overture' to someone who was bonded, regardless of how attractive they were. I am also certain that Ti'er Malcolm would never encourage her to do so."

"Course not." Trip was face down on the table. Shran waited quietly for a few more minutes. When he was certain Trip was sound asleep, he summoned Lieutenant Russell who was waiting patiently in the mess hall.

"Perhaps you could see your Captain to bed? I should think he will sleep for some time. Mr. Hardy can escort me to the transporter. I have a matter to discuss with him in any case."

"I'll take care of it, sir. Thank you for helping us out with the Captain."

"My pleasure, Lieutenant." Shran pointed to the last full bottle of Andorian ale. "Your clearance has just gone up a level."

That evening, Mr. Hardy ordered _Victory_ and its escorts to warp on a course for Earth. Trip was deeply asleep in his quarters dreaming of a time when he and Mal were young, uninjured and newly, passionately in love.


	3. Remembrance

Works used in this story that don't belong to me include:

_High Flight_ by Pilot Officer John Gillespie Magee, Jr.

_I Vow to Thee My Country_ by Sir Cecil Spring-Rice.

_Amazing Grace_ by John Newton.

Trip had transported planetside early in the morning just after dawn. He was scheduled to take an early train up to London to meet with one of the Queen's protocol officers and a representative of Starfleet's Public Affairs Office to go over the final plans for Malcolm's funeral. If Starfleet sent that Lieutenant Rivers, Trip mused, then he was gonna find out if Her Majesty's government still locked people in the Tower; better yet, if they still beheaded 'em. It wasn't like Rivers had a brain in there that he'd miss!

He'd made arrangements to be allowed aboard _HMS Victory _at this early hour. He'd been there once before in much happier circumstances. After he and Malcolm had married, Jon had given them 2 weeks leave. They'd spent the second week in England, and Malcolm had shown him around. Even though Malcolm hadn't wanted to join the Royal Navy, he was proud of its traditions, and this ship, the oldest commissioned warship on Earth, had been their first stop. Trip had found the ship amazing: So small, yet so tall and astonishingly beautiful. He'd asked Malcolm if it had really looked like that going into battle. Malcolm had looked at him like he was some kind of spider from Mars, which had prompted Trip to explain that he had seen the _USS Constitution_, a ship only slightly younger than _Victory_ and also still a commissioned vessel in the US Navy, in the Charlestown Navy Yard in Boston. That ship had seemed so severe, painted all in black save for the gun ports that were a light color, either yellow or white (Trip couldn't quite remember). _Victory_, on the other hand, was brightly painted and ornate. Malcolm had smiled. He couldn't resist needling his new husband just a bit. Just what had Trip expected of "Old Ironsides"? Boston, Puritans, "frugal" Yankees - of course the ship would be austere! England, on the other hand, ruled the waves, and _HMS Victory _reflected that.

Trip walked up the gangplank and turned to salute the quarterdeck. In addition to flying its country's flag, this _Victory_, unlike Trip's, still flew an admiral's flag. Trip was welcomed aboard by a tall young man with an athletic build, curly auburn hair and bright blue eyes. If he read the rank badges correctly, then the man was a commander.

"Captain Tucker, welcome aboard, sir. Have you visited the ship before? Would you like the grand tour?"

"_Oh, God! He sounds just like Mal,"_ Trip thought. He hadn't planned on touring the ship, but he had time and he wanted to keep the man talking. "I was here some years back, so I wouldn't mind having my memory refreshed a bit."

He'd been shown the plaque in the deck that marked where Nelson had been shot by a marksman in the rigging of the French ship _Redoutable_ early in the battle of Trafalgar. He'd been taken down to see the cockpit which served as the ship's sickbay and where Nelson had died. Now, Trip and Malcolm had both spent considerable time in the sickbay on the old _Enterprise_ and hadn't liked it a bit, but Trip could not imagine medical care being provided in this dark, cramped place. Of course the "care" would have been amputation for just about any extremity wound, no anesthesia, no antibiotics and no clue about asepsis. _"How could Malcolm's ancestors sign on when they knew this horror awaited them?" _Finally, he'd been shown the gun deck. The cannons had been state-of-the-art in 1805 but probably couldn't even dent a starship's hull. Trip remembered Malcolm's fascination with them nonetheless. He smiled to himself. "_If he could have, Mal probably would have spirited one away and used it like a hood ornament or somethin' on the Enterprise." _

The tour came to an end, and they were back at the gangplank. The young commander suddenly seemed almost shy and diffident, another of Malcolm's traits. With a pang he hadn't expected, Trip realized that if he and Malcolm had had children, then they'd be about the age of this young man. "Son, is there somethin' I can do for ya?" Trip asked quietly.

The young man blushed just as Malcolm had. "Sir, some of the other officers and I would like to take part in Admiral Lord Reed's funeral. Rather a salute from those of us who serve the legends of the past to one who is already a legend in the present and from one _Victory_ to another, if you will."

"That's right kind of ya, son. I think Mal - Admiral Lord Reed - would be honored. I don't reckon those protocol boys will listen to a thing I say, but I'll put in a word for ya, I promise."

"Thank you, sir. That's all one can ask, really." The young man favored Trip with a dazzling smile as he returned his salute.

It wasn't until Trip was on the train speeding toward London that he realized who his guide had been: Commander A. E. A. Wales, also known as H.R.H. Albert Edward Arthur, Prince of Wales, the firstborn child of Her Majesty, Queen Diana, and heir to the English throne. Once he got over his shock, Trip smiled. _"Oh, Mal, I wonder how he would have felt it he'd known ya had a schoolboy crush on his momma?" _The smile turned wistful. _"Don't worry, darlin'. I won't tell 'im."_

Trip was bored and more than a little put out. The room at Buckingham Palace was indeed beautiful, but it could only be expected to hold one's interest for just so long. He had been sitting there for hours listening to the "protocol boys" nitpick and haggle over every minute detail of Malcolm's funeral. He was convinced they'd forgotten he was even there. He would have loved to have said "to Hell with it" and left, but he felt honor-bound to represent Malcolm's interest in the proceedings, particularly considering what Starfleet had wanted to do to him in the first place.

His reverie was interrupted by the British protocol officer. This man sounded like Malcolm, too, only like Malcolm when he was in a snit about not getting more power for the phase cannons. "Captain Tucker, do you have any requests you wish to make on behalf of Admiral Lord Reed?"

"Yes, sir, I do; four of 'em actually."

"First, I'd like the poem _High Flight_ recited. If I remember right, it was written by a Yank in the RAF during the Battle of Britain. He was killed in a plane crash, I believe." That should satisfy both the British and Starfleet, which was still dominated by Americans.

Trip had first heard the poem as a teenager. He'd stayed up to watch some creature feature on a small, local video channel. Just before playing the national anthem and going off-line for the night, the channel had played a Starfleet PSA that showed all its latest craft while the poem was being read. Trip figured that was when he first seriously considered joining up. For some reason, a couple of lines of the poem had stayed with him.

"_Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth_

_And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;"_

That fit for Mal all right. He'd had to go into space to learn that he was a person of talent and worth. He'd found friends, a family of sorts, respect and love, all things the surly Earth had denied him. But, like someone had said long ago, "There ain't no such thing as a free lunch," and space had also ultimately brought his death.

"_And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod_

_The high unsurpassed sanctity of space,_

_Put out my hand and touched the face of God."_

Second, I'd like _I Vow to Thee My Country_ as one of the hymns. The British protocol officer nodded in agreement immediately. Starfleet's representative looked perplexed and accessed his data terminal. Trip couldn't blame him, really. He'd never heard of it either until Malcolm had introduced him to it.

Trip remembered the night. He and Malcolm had been working doubles trying to get the phase cannons upgraded before they were needed. They'd stopped in the mess hall for a combined lunch, dinner and midnight snack. Shran had been first officer then and was working on reports while listening to Gustav Holst's _The Planets_ on his ever-present music player. Knowing Shran, Trip had guessed he was listening to the section entitled _Mars, The Bringer of War,_but Shran corrected him. It was _Jupiter, The Bringer of Jollity_. It was then that Malcolm had told him that it was also a hymn written in 1918 at the end of the Great War and one of his favorites. Shran had found it in the ship's database and downloaded it to the player.

"_I vow to thee, my country, all earthly things above,_

_Entire and whole and perfect, the service of my love;_

_The love that asks no question, the love that stands the test,_

_That lays upon the alter the dearest and the best;_

_The love that never falters, the love that pays the price,_

_The love that makes undaunted the final sacrifice."_

That was the quintessential Malcolm Reed: Devoted to duty. Devoted to the persons and places he loved. He would do whatever he could to protect them, regardless of personal cost, whether it was _Enterprise_, England, Earth or the extraterrestrial worlds of the Federation, and he had died thanking God that he had done his duty. For Trip, he was the dearest and the best and for that reason he had had to bring him home, had to hear his memory honored as his body lay coffined before the high alter of St. Paul's.

But the hymn had had a second verse, very different from the first.

"_And there's another country, I've heard of long ago,_

_Most dear to them that love her, most great to them that know;_

_We may not count her armies, we may not see her King;_

_Her fortress is a faithful heart, her pride is suffering;_

_And soul by soul and silently her shining bounds increase,_

_And her ways are ways of gentleness, and all her paths are peace."_

For all that Malcolm loved weapons and explosives and studied the ways of war, Trip thought that he was the gentlest, kindest, most loving of men. On a peaceable Earth in a peaceable universe, Trip could have imagined Malcolm working as a master pyrotechnician going from place to place and devising grand fireworks displays, to the delight of young and old alike, for public celebrations like New Year's and the Fourth of July. "_OK, Mal, on second thought, you bein' English and all, maybe **not** the Fourth of July."_

But what would be Malcolm's place in the Peaceable Kingdom of God? Trip's grandma and momma had made sure he went to church, but he had always had a much clearer vision of Hell than he did of Heaven. True, he could imagine Mal with angel wings - he loved to fly. But a harp and singin' God's praise? _"Just talkin' with that lovely accent might be better." _Maybe God would put him in charge of the auroras, or meteor showers, or comets or, best of all, supernovas. _"No, darlin', I s'pect you ain't gonna get to recreate the 'Big Bang'."_

"And your third request, Captain Tucker?" The "Malcolm in a snit voice" brought Trip back to reality.

"Now as I understand it, you gents have already agreed on playin' _Amazin' Grace._ Do I have that right?"

"Yes, sir, you do. A piper from the Black Watch will be playing it."

"That's good. Now, what I want you to do is to print the third verse - not the first verse that everybody knows, but the third - in the program, bulletin or whatever ya'll call it." This time both protocol men looked perplexed and made to access their data terminals. "Don't bother, gents, I can tell ya'll what it says." With the slightest of grins, he added, "Don't worry, I won't be singin' it."

"_Through many dangers, toils and snares,_

_I have already come._

'_Twas grace that brought me safe thus far,_

_and grace will lead me home."_

It shouldn't be thought that in making this request Trip was giving himself a pat on the back for keeping his promise to Malcolm to bring him home. Trip knew that if he'd been left to his own devices it would never have happened. No, it was an acknowledgement that some higher power, be it God or "The Force" or whatever one wished to call it, had given Malcolm talents and abilities that had served to keep him alive through countless difficulties from an abusive childhood, to away missions gone awry to previous great battles in space. This power had also given Malcolm that indefinable "something" that had led so many to trust, respect and follow him and had made him the love of Trip's life. That "something", and Trip was willing to call it "grace", was what had really brought Malcolm home to Earth and the power that had bestowed it had taken his soul to a safe place where it would know no more pain, or so he hoped.

"Finally, there are some officers on _HMS Victory_ who would like to take part in the funeral. I promised I'd put a word in for 'em. Now, I don't normally mess with another command's duty roster, but if some kind of accommodation could be made, I'd be mighty grateful."

"There was no need for you to go to the trouble, Captain Tucker. The officers on _Victory_, ours that is, will form the honor guard when Admiral Lord Reed's coffin is brought up river to London on the frigate _Ark Royal _and will march beside the caisson bearing his coffin to Westminster and later to St. Paul's."

"Ya'll are bringin' 'im up river on a boat?" This possibility had never occurred to Trip. He'd assumed Malcolm's body would be brought to London in a hearse or on a train or something on land.

"Yes, we're copying certain aspects of Lord Nelson's funeral. We thought you'd be pleased. Is there a problem, Captain?"

"No, no problem. Just s'prised is all, but I guess I should have realized," is what Trip said. "_Hell, yeah, there's a problem! Mal's terrified of water!"_ was what he thought. Anyone who knew him would have seen through the deception, especially if they'd also known Malcolm well, but neither protocol officer did.

Trip stayed for almost another hour listening to the "protocol boys" go at one another again. The latest argument, whether _Last Post_ or _Taps_ should be played, was the final straw. "Damn it, why don't ya'll just play 'em both? If anybody deserves to rest in peace, it's Malcolm!" With that, Trip stormed out. He was supposed to meet up with Jonathan, T'Pol and Jhamel at the American embassy, but there was something back on _Victory_ he needed to take care of first.

"Captain, we didn't expect you back. You forget something?" Russell was manning the transporter again.

"Nah. Somethin' came up in London, and I gotta take care of it. I'll be back directly. Ya can keep the meter runnin'," Trip said with a slight grin.

On his way down to the cargo bay, Trip was joined by Commander Hardy. "I understand some officers from _HMS Victory_ will be by tomorrow to escort Admiral Reed planetside and then on up to London?" Hardy asked.

"That's right, and one of 'em is the Prince of Wales, so make sure ya'll are on your best behavior and get the ship policed up or the Admiral will come back and haunt ya."

"I'll see that we are then, sir," Hardy said with a bland face, although personally, he thought that having Admiral Reed's ghost aboard the next time the ship went into battle might not be such a bad thing.

Trip went into the cargo bay alone and this time dismissed the honor guard. Nobody else needed to hear what he had to tell Malcolm. He put his hand lightly on the coffin over about where he thought Malcolm's heart would be.

"Mal," he began, "I know ya ain't gonna like this, but ya need to listen 'cause there ain't a damn thing you or I can do 'bout it. Tomorrow mornin' some of the officers from _HMS Victory_ are gonna come up here to get ya and take ya the last little way down to Earth. Their commander is the Prince of Wales, Mal. I met him this mornin' and he seems like a nice boy and a real credit to his momma. He asked for this job special, so I know he's gonna take real good care of ya."

"Now, this is the part ya ain't gonna like. They're gonna put ya on the frigate _Ark Royal_ and bring ya up the Thames to London just like ya was Lord Nelson or somethin'." Trip rushed on as if overriding Malcolm's objection. "I know ya don't like bein' on the water, but I figured ya wouldn't want me blabbin' that to the whole world, now would ya?" He paused for a moment. "No, I didn't think so. I swear to ya, Mal, they won't let anything go wrong. Ya know how embarrassin' it would be to the Royal Family if ya, say, went for a swim?"

"Now, Mal, don't ya go callin' me that! Ya know it ain't true! 'Sides, if momma heard ya say that, it would her hurt feelin's real bad. She always thought ya were a good boy, so polite and all."

"Look, I'm gonna do the one thing that will guarantee you'll be fine. Much as I wanna be with ya, darlin', I ain't gettin' on that boat. Hosh, may she rest in peace, didn't call us the 'Disaster Twins' for nothin', so I'll be waitin' for ya with Jon, T'Pol, Travis and Miss Jhamel at the Whitehall steps. From there on, darlin', I'll be behind ya every step of the way." Trip's voice was pretty choked up by now. "Just do what they tell ya, baby, and I promise it'll be all right."

Trip stood silently for a few minutes, his hand idly caressing the Starfleet flag over Malcolm's coffin. "I'll see ya in the mornin', darlin'," he said softly. He'd almost made it to the door when he turned back one last time. "Mal, you give the Prince any trouble, and I swear I'll change my mind and tell him ya had a real thing for his momma!" Satisfied that he had done all he could, by hook or by crook, to ensure Malcolm a safe voyage, Trip left the cargo bay and _Victory_ and headed back up to London.

Late that evening, Trip prowled about the suite of rooms he'd been given in the American embassy. He hadn't been particularly hungry at dinner, even though he knew great care had been taken to provide his favorite foods, and the meal had seemed to last forever. Jon, T'Pol, Travis, Jhamel, young Lieutenant Shran and General Telev had all been kind and considerate and had tried to provide support, but despite their best efforts, without Malcolm, Trip had felt painfully alone. Now, he couldn't sleep. He'd had the audio player on and then the video machine just to have noise in the room, just to have the illusion of company, but it wasn't working. Malcolm hadn't been gone that long, yet Trip knew that how he felt now was how Malcolm had felt most of his life until he'd joined the _Enterprise_. "_God, Mal, how could ya do it? How could ya stand it?"_

His thoughts were interrupted by a soft, almost timid, knock on his door. When he opened it, he was surprised to find Jhamel. She was dressed in a floor-length gown with a high mandarin collar and long, full sleeves. The shiny silk seemed to change color from blue to gray depending on the light. "_Like Mal's eyes" _was all that Trip could think. He still couldn't get over that she had cut her long, usually elaborately braided white hair such that it was shorter now than T'Pol's.

"Miss Jhamel, I'm sorry. Was I keepin' ya awake?" Trip hit "mute" on the remote he was carrying. Jhamel had been assigned the adjoining suite, and Trip had forgotten about her ultrasensitive Andorian antennae.

"Not at all, Captain. I have something for you, but I did not think you would wish to open it in the presence of others. May I come in, please?" She held out a hand to him.

"Beg pardon, Miss Jhamel. Don't know what's happened to my manners." Trip carefully placed her hand on his arm and led her to a comfortable chair in the sitting room. She functioned at so high a level that it was easy to forget that she was blind.

"You have other things on your mind, I think? No offense is taken for none was given." From the sleeve of her gown she extracted a small blue leather box which she held out to Trip. "It is a custom of my people. I am told it was once a custom of yours as well, although perhaps no longer?" There was something comforting in the soft, gentle cadences of her voice.

When Trip opened the box, he saw a platinum locket on a long, finely wrought chain. He recognized the Reed family crest on one side of the locket and the Tucker family crest on the other. Trip smiled. "Miss Jhamel, I 'spect my branch of the Tucker family don't have the right to this here crest." When he opened the locket, however, he gasped and was left speechless. Andorian jewelry is highly prized as Andorii craftsmen are perhaps the best in the known worlds. By some process Trip couldn't name, the jewelers had recreated in gems and precious metals the wedding photograph he had placed in Malcolm's coffin. Malcolm's eyes changed color with a change in light and seemed always to be on Trip no matter where he held the locket. It was as if they were alive. Trip was mesmerized and silent.

"If you do not approve, Captain, then there is another," Jhamel said quietly. "The portraits are different: Ti'er Malcolm's is from the day he was promoted admiral and yours is from the day you won the Cochrane Prize in Engineering. Thy'lek and I thought it more appropriate for Ti'er Malcolm's space in the Wall of Heroes, but if you would prefer . . ."

Trip finally came out of his daze. "Oh, Miss Jhamel, I don't know what to say! This is beyond 'beautiful'. I've never seen the like. Thank you is hardly adequate. But you had a second made? Why? How could I possibly disapprove of this?"

"You must understand, Captain, that Ti'er Malcolm's space in the Wall of Heroes is, for us, his grave on Andoria. Thy'lek, the children and I did not wish him to feel that he had been buried alone on an alien world so far from his home."

"I doubt he'd feel that way, Miss Jhamel. He was always treated with respect there and enjoyed the warm hospitality of the House of Shran." Jhamel silently inclined her head in thanks.

"It's a shame you cut your hair," Trip went on after a moment. "It was kinda your trademark here on Earth. It'll take forever to grow back."

"It is a sign of respect and mourning. It will grow back, Captain, and sooner than you would expect, although perhaps not quite the same. More silver than white, I should think."

Trip stared at her for a moment. "That a subtle Aenar way of sayin' eventually I'll get used to Mal bein' gone, that life goes on, only just a little different? I won't keep seein' somethin' or hearin' somethin' that reminds me of 'im everywhere I go? I won't keep feelin' like my heart's been ripped out and stomped on but I ain't quite dead yet?" He tried to keep the bitterness from his voice but knew, with her in particular, that he wouldn't be successful.

"Neither will you forget him which is what you fear even more," Jhamel said in a still quiet voice.

"Yeah, well right now I wish I was a Vulcan or an Andorian. That way, when he died, I would have died right along with 'im!" There, how he really felt was out in the open, but actually saying it didn't help the way he'd hoped it would.

"Jeez, Jhamel, I'm sorry. I got no business sayin' somethin' like that to you, you bein' married to the commandin' general of the Guard and Tren goin' into battle with Starfleet and all. Mal always says - said - I let my mouth fire before my brain's acquired a target. I didn't mean nothin' by it." If it were possible, Trip felt even worse.

Jhamel favored Trip with a small, sad smile. "I am afraid I will disappoint you, Captain. Not that I am angry with you, for I am not; rather, that I must tell you that what you believe is a myth, at least on Andoria. I am not qualified to speak for Vulcan, and in any case it is not my place to do so, but that of Madame T'Pol's. I do not say that what you believe never happens, only that it is not common. There would be little left of the Andorii warrior caste, and no Aenar left at all, if it were. It is simply that we noted long ago that some surviving bond mates soon follow their beloved into the West, but no more frequently than on Earth, or so I am told. I am afraid the observation became somewhat romanticized over time. I expect to suffer Thy'lek's death or Tren's or both as you suffer Ti'er Malcolm's should that be the will of the gods."

"I don't rightly know what I was expectin' anymore, Jhamel. When I first took up with Mal, I was scared to death he was gonna get himself killed, and more likely than not, savin' my sorry ass." Trip made a wry face. "If you'll pardon my language?" Again, Jhamel silently inclined her head.

"He was so determined to prove he was worthy of his job. He never got much love or support at home. No matter how hard he tried, it was never good enough for his dad. By the time he was assigned to _Enterprise_, he'd come to feel he really had to push the envelope to be taken seriously. Then he found that the crew cared for 'im and that I loved 'im. He couldn't believe that just bein' himself was all we wanted or needed in return. It took awhile to get through to him that we wanted him to work at stayin' alive. Somewhere along the line I got to thinkin' he was invincible, or maybe I figured that since we were almost always together when somethin' went wrong that that's how it would be in the end."

"When he was promoted captain, I was already in the Reserves and teachin' engineerin' at Georgia Tech. This thing with the Romulans was just startin' up, and when he chose a ship over assignment to Weapons R&D . . . ," Trip paused for a moment. His eyes seemed to be gazing at something far away. "Well, that's the closest we ever came to divorce. I thought he was tryin' to get himself killed again. It took me awhile to get that he wouldn't be the man I loved if he didn't do what he saw as his duty and that I'd been pretty insultin' to think he'd risk his ship and crew just chasin' glory. 'Course, to be honest, it helped when the Weapons Lab at Argonne went up. If Mal had been there, he would have died just like a couple of his friends. He looked into it and told me it wouldn't have made no difference if he'd been there. Sometimes, what looks real good on paper just don't work worth a damn in the real world." Trip cringed slightly at his use of the curse word. "So, I made sure to message him every day, even if only a short one, and to always tell him I loved him."

"After he made Admiral, and with the war really heatin' up, I got called back to active duty. Mal may have pulled strings to get me in his command, but I doubt it. Starfleet probably just figured it would work out better that way. Ya may have noticed I have a tendency to get vocal when I'm aggravated." Trip managed a wry grin. "I guess I got lazy and went back to thinkin' like I did toward the end on _Enterprise_. As dumb as it sounds, considerin', I just never expected not to be with him."

"Miss Jhamel, if ya don't mind me askin', how do you deal with - well, ya know?"

"Well, to begin with, I **did** accept the bonding proposal of an Andorian military man. Thy'lek never pretended to be anything else, although, like Ti'er Malcolm, he **is** a great deal more. For a few years after Talla was born, Thy'lek did leave the Guard to work for an import/export firm. He owed a duty to his family, he said, but he was so miserable. I could not bear to sense him like that and finally convinced him to seek reinstatement in the Guard. For whatever reason, the gods gave him, and probably Tren as well, a talent for war, as they did Ti'er Malcolm. One is meant to use one's talents, else life has no meaning."

"Or death, either?"

Jhamel sighed, "Or death, either. Otherwise, I cope as you did. They know they are in my thoughts always and that I love them."

"Thy'lek told me what his people think happens after death. What do the Aenar think?"

"The Aenar soul is of three parts. One part, the _ba'elan_, remains with family and friends."

"Like a ghost?" Trip, the horror movie fan, hadn't expected something like this from the gentle Aenar.

Jhamel smiled. "Yes, but not like in most of your videos. There is no evil intent, only a wish to be remembered."

"You sayin' part of the reason I feel so bad is Mal's fault? He's **already** hauntin' me so I won't forget him?"

"I would not say that it is his 'fault', but given some of what I know of his life, it would seem reasonable for him to be more sensitive to the issue than others might be. I also suspect that he did not **really** consider being without **you**. He must adjust to that just as you must."

"So, you're sayin' he's gotta get used to bein' dead?"

"The _ba'elan_ does, certainly, and perhaps the _ka'elan_, or second part of his soul as well. This is the part you would probably describe as personality. It dwells in the West, a world of peace, plenty and ease, although I suspect that what that would entail for Ti'er Malcolm is quite different from what my people would find pleasing."

"Not that Andoria ain't beautiful, mind ya, 'cause it is; but yeah, he'd like it a lot warmer with green grass everywhere. 'Course, even if that's what he got, he wouldn't believe it at first. He'd have to check it out." Trip flashed Jhamel a brief smile and then sobered again. "He's gonna miss settin' off explosions, though. And he's still gonna want to patch things up with his dad."

"Perhaps his father will desire it as well. Perhaps they will go sailing together." At Trip's look of disbelief, Jhamel explained, "In the West, there is no fear. Ti'er Malcolm will once again enjoy the water. His father's fears and disappointments in this life, whatever they may have been, will be erased as well. As for explosions, I believe Aenar and Humans alike enjoy fireworks? I know the Andorii do!"

"Sounds nice, Jhamel, but not exactly Thy'lek's version of Heaven."

Jhamel shrugged. "Once the Dark Lord is defeated, then the Hall of Heroes becomes - what would Ti'er Malcolm call it? - the neighborhood pub. For some Andorii, that will lose something in the translation."

"There are those of my people, like the Andorii in general, although I suspect Thy'lek did not tell you this, who believe that Ti'er Malcolm's _ka'elan_ soul would do well to 'check things out.' They believe there are demons who will try to steer the soul off the true path to the West and lead it into a blizzard's whiteout, an avalanche or onto melting or calving ice where it will be lost forever. If they are correct, perhaps it is better that Ti'er Malcolm has gone first alone? He is highly skilled in such matters. When he returns for you, he will know the correct path and will lead you safely. Is that not his deepest nature?"

"Yeah, it is," Trip sighed. "Still, on the off chance there's a demon smarter than him (_like maybe his dad),_ then I'd rather we be lost together."

"But he does not. You changed a great many of his perceptions of love, and perhaps rightfully so, but you could never change this one. As long as it can be done with honor, he will always put your well-being first."

"And the third part of the soul?" Trip asked. He figured it was his last chance to hear something comforting.

"The _akh'elan_ is what I believe most humans would consider the true soul. It is the part given by the gods, and it returns to them to become a star."

"Well then, maybe when this thing with the Romulans is over and we can get back to explorin', Travis will get to name a star for 'im - preferably one that's about to go supernova." The thought brought a genuine smile to Trip's face.

Jhamel rose to leave as the sky in the east began to lighten. "Or Tren will name a binary star for you both," Jhamel gently offered with a smile.

It was gray, cold and damp with fog rising above the Thames as Trip waited for Malcolm's body to arrive at the Whitehall Steps. He could hear the minute gun at the Tower firing at regular intervals like a steady heartbeat. Perhaps it was the weather or the distance or just a trick of acoustics, but the report of the gun sounded muffled as if it, too, were in mourning.

Finally, the black-draped frigate _HMS Ark Royal_ hove into view. As Malcolm's body was transferred to shore, the vessel's off-duty watches, in dress whites with a black arm band, stood to attention. As expected (except perhaps by Trip), everything went off without a hitch under the watchful eyes and clear, ringing commands of Commander Wales. Malcolm's coffin was carefully and securely placed on the caisson that was to be drawn by ratings of the Royal Navy. It was covered by the flag of Starfleet. At its head, a large wreath of red, white and blue flowers; toward the middle, the velvet-lined case holding Malcolm's numerous decorations; and at the end, just placed there by Trip himself, a small wreath of yellow, thornless roses.

"Mornin', darlin'," Trip whispered. "See, I told ya you'd be fine. You're home, Mal, just like I promised, and ya ain't gonna have to go on the water no more, neither. Ya oughta see all the people! They're so proud of ya, but all together, they ain't any prouder of ya than I am. Now, I know ya don't wanna be late, so we'll get this show on the road. I'll be right behind ya every step of the way just like I promised. I love ya, darlin'." Trip saluted the coffin and nodded to Commander Wales. The command was given. The drums of the Central Band of the RAF began the slow, "dead cadence", and the cortege moved out. All Trip could think of at the moment was that he was adding a whole new meaning to the phrase "dead man walking."

Malcolm's funeral was everything Trip had hoped it would be - solemn, moving, beautiful and appropriate. Everything continued to go flawlessly. As much as it pained him, Trip had to admit that maybe the "protocol boys" had known what they were doing after all. Jon had delivered a most gracious eulogy that chronicled Malcolm's career with as much pride as if Malcolm had been his son. And at the end of it all, down in the crypt of St. Paul's beside the grave of Malcolm's hero, Admiral Lord Nelson, the Starfleet flag from atop the coffin had been folded with the utmost precision and handed to Trip by Commander Wales.

"My condolences, sir. I promise you we'll take good care of him. It has been an honor to serve you, sir, both of you."

"Thank ya, son. You've done a fine job. Malcolm and I are right grateful, and I hope your royal momma's suitably proud of ya too."

Trip had brought Malcolm home, so all that was left for him to do was to return to Georgia to the rambling old house he and Mal had shared whenever they'd both been on Earth at the same time. All he had to do was go home. For the first time in his life, the thought filled him with dread.


	4. Memory

Lyrics from _As Time Goes By_ belong to Herman Hupfeld and Warner Brothers Music Corporation, ASCAP.

Trip was the last to leave the subspace shuttle after it had docked at the gate at the Carter-King space port in Atlanta. Whatever videographers were around had been too interested in T'Pol and Jhamel to wait about for an aging, graying, widowed space captain. Jon had arranged for private transportation to take Trip home, but Trip declined. He'd just take the MARTA. It was Friday night, and the trains would be full. He could get lost in the crowd at the transfer station at Five Points. It didn't matter that the closest stop to his home was a good 2 miles away. He needed all the time he could get to steel himself to face the old, rambling and very empty house.

Trip's home was an old plantation house that had somehow escaped the ravages of Sherman's blue hordes during the Battle of Atlanta. Rumor had it that it was because it had been used as the headquarters for Major General Grenville Dodge of the Union Army's XVI Corps. Malcolm had doubted that it was true, but Trip clung to the story because Dodge had gone on to become the chief operating engineer for the Union Pacific, half of the Transcontinental Railroad, one of the greatest engineering feats of the second half of the 1800s. Of course, the house had been partially demolished, added on to, remodeled, rehabbed and generally redone so many times over the years that very little of the original structure actually remained.

For Trip, though, the house had always been special. It had been Grandma Tucker's home and the site of innumerable Tucker family gatherings, including Grandma Tucker's 100th birthday party which had taken place in the week after Trip and Malcolm had married. Of course, Trip chose that day to bring Malcolm home to meet his family. Poor Malcolm had been overwhelmed by the numerous loud, boisterous and inquisitive members of the Tucker clan. They, in turn, particularly the Tucker women, had been quite taken with the handsome, polite, shy, soft-spoken Englishman with the lovely accent. Their immediate and unconditional acceptance had stunned him, given his less than optimal experience with his own family.

Trip had been surrounded by the children who all clamored to hear his stories about space and all the strange and exotic people he'd met. "_Uncle Trip, do the Andorians really have antennae like bugs? Do Tellarites really look like Porky Pig?"_ He'd kind of lost track of Malcolm for awhile but eventually found him sitting and talking quietly with Grandma Tucker in the gazebo in the backyard. Before he could interrupt, he'd been called away by one of the older boys who was restoring a classic Hummer and wanted his expert engineer's opinion. Later that evening, Grandma Tucker had taken him aside and offered her assessment of Malcolm and a bit of advice: "Charlie, you've found yourself a mighty nice young man. Just remember, keepin' is even harder than gettin'. Ya got a tendency to run off at the mouth sometimes and kinda take things for granted. Ya could lose Malcolm doin' that which would make ya 'bout the biggest fool this side of the Mississippi."

Trip and Malcolm had rejoined the _Enterprise _following their honeymoon leave and were about 3 years into their second 5-year deployment when they received news that Grandma Tucker had died peacefully in her sleep in her big, old house. Malcolm had been as distressed as Trip. He'd kept in touch with her regularly as if she had been his own grandmother, and whenever _Enterprise_ stopped in at Jupiter Station, she had always sent a "care package" for him as well as Trip. Nonetheless, he was unprepared for the message he received a few weeks later.

"Good lord, I can't accept this!"

"Can't accept what, darlin'?" Trip asked as he strolled out of the bathroom clothed only in an artfully draped towel that made him look like he was going to a toga party with John Belushi at _Animal House_.

Malcolm replayed the relevant portion of the video will that had been recorded by Grandma Tucker.

"Malcolm, dear, ya need a place to put down roots, a place ya can call home, 'specially once you and Charlie get too old to go galavantin' 'mong the stars and are content just to sit on the verandah and look at 'em, so I'm gonna leave my house to ya. I wanna be clear, dear, I'm leavin' it to you, not Charlie, so if he ever does somethin' to hurt ya, somethin' ya can't forgive, ya can call the sheriff on 'im and kick 'im and his stuff to the curb." Malcolm froze the video.

"Sure ya can, Mal. It's what Grandma wanted. Ya don't want her to come back and haunt ya, do ya?"

"But it's the Tucker House. It's been in your family for generations."

"Darlin', that ring on your left hand makes ya a part of my family, a very important part of my family, even if ya didn't take my name. 'Sides, I ain't plannin' on doin' nothin' that would give ya cause to call the po-lice on me."

Of course, Grandma Tucker had known him better than he'd known himself. Several years later, when Malcolm had been promoted captain, he'd given him such grief about choosing a ship over a planetside posting to Weapons R&D that Malcolm had finally told him to leave. What was worse was that, at the time, he'd been all too happy to oblige. They'd eventually patched things up like they always did. Malcolm's peace offering had been to put Trip's name on the deed to the house. He'd planned to do it for their anniversary anyway, but he'd already be deployed by then, and if anything untoward were to happen . . . Well, he didn't want to leave Trip homeless. Trip had always regretted that he'd wasted the time he could have spent with Malcolm, time when he could have offered support and love to his husband, the fledgling captain. If the Devil came down to Georgia, what wouldn't he give to have back all the time he and Malcolm had spent - wasted - fighting?

Somehow, he found himself at his own front door without knowing exactly how he'd gotten there. He took a deep breath, unlocked the door and walked in. He wanted so badly to call out, "Hi, honey! I'm home!" like he was Ricky Ricardo or Fred Flintstone or some character from an old TV show and hear Mal call to him from their office in the den or come out of the kitchen and give him a hug and a quick kiss, his blue-gray eyes sparkling with love and life. _"Never again!"_ For Trip, this made the house so cold that, for once, if Shran had been there, Trip was sure he couldn't have complained of the temperature.

Trip dropped his flight bag in the front hall and ambled back toward the kitchen. He was vaguely hungry. He didn't expect to find much in the cupboards or the refrigerator, and a quick survey proved his expectation to be well founded. He checked the time. It was nearly 10:00 p.m. On a Friday night, the local pizza parlor would still be going strong. He powered up the data terminal and was about to place his standing order when, for some reason, he actually read the confirmation screen and quickly hit cancel. The standing order from the Tucker-Reed house was one large Chicago-style pizza, half "The Kitchen Sink" (because it had everything on it **but** the kitchen sink) and half Hawaiian (Canadian bacon and pineapple) with extra pineapple and a 2-liter bottle of "Special Recipe" Coke. (All it was really was "Classic Coke", but some executive had gotten the bright idea to toy with the formula again. The resultant drink hadn't gone down well, and the company had been forced to resurrect the old standby. Would they ever learn not to fix what ain't broke?) He decided to settle for the lonely can of beer in the fridge. He popped the tab and took a swig. It would do.

He'd put off hearing Malcolm's farewell message long enough. He headed toward their office but thought better of it and went downstairs to the media room. He put the chip in the player and settled back to listen.

"Hello, love," Malcolm began. Trip immediately hit "Repeat Play" so that only those two words were repeated again and again. He got up and approached the large screen on the wall. The image projected there was nearly life size. He reached out a trembling hand and gently traced the high cheekbones, the firm jaw and the sensuous lips. "Hello, darlin'." But instead of Malcolm's warm, soft skin, he felt only the screen's cold hardness. He returned to his seat and pressed "Play."

"I believe your hero, Robert E. Lee, once said that for a general to be successful, he must love the army but not be afraid to order the death of the thing he loves. I do not fear to order the death of the fleet; indeed, I may have already done so. It is within the scope of my orders, and the sacrifice may be necessary for the protection of Earth. As you are playing this recording, I have clearly ordered my own death." Malcolm shrugged slightly. "I did not fear it, Trip, but, please believe me, neither did I actively seek it. I hope that I died honorably in the performance of my duty, that I brought no shame to you in addition to whatever grief you might feel at my passing."

"Ah jeez, Mal!" Trip cried out in exasperation and grief.

"The only thing I feared was that I had ordered your death as well. It is selfish and perhaps dishonorable for me to put you above the others, but it is the truth of things. It would give me great comfort to know that you are, indeed, playing this recording, for then I would know that by some kind providence you have survived, and perhaps many of our people as well, even though I could not protect us all, could not protect even myself."

"Rumor has it in the fleet that the commanding admiral is a paragon of virtue." Malcolm's voice had changed from sad to ironic. "It is said that despite all the temptations on all the ships, in all the space ports, on all the worlds, federated or otherwise, he has, as the vow says, 'cleaved only onto you.' That's true enough, Love, but a much too narrow definition of fidelity. It is possible to cheat in ways that are not physical, and that I have done. I have put my duty to Starfleet above my duty to you and to our marriage more times than I would care to count. You forgave me long ago, I know, and have turned a blind eye to it since, like Nelson to the signal at Copenhagen, but I am aware that my attitude and actions have caused you pain. I fear I have been a poor husband to one who has given me so much, so freely; and yet, I truly do not know how I could have lived differently. Please know that I have loved you always to the best of my ability and I beg you to once again forgive my deficiencies."

Trip hit "Stop." "Damn it all, Mal! There ain't nothin' to forgive, and even if there was, I wouldn't want ya beggin'; and I ain't been pretendin' nothin' neither. Ya know damn well I can't lie to save my ass, least of all to you. If I'd wanted somebody better'n you, if I'd even thought there **was** somebody better'n you, then don't ya think that's who I'd have gone after? Come on, Mal, that ain't rocket science to figure out!"

"Ya know I never disrespected your dad to your face, but I tell ya, right now, if that man was still alive but dying in an ER somewheres, I swear I'd tell 'em to keep 'im alive just long enough so's I could get there and kill 'im myself for the way he messed up your head!"

Trip sighed in frustration. "Sorry, Mal. It ain't fair blamin' it all on your dad. He only had ya for 18 years; I had ya for more than 40 all told. If anybody was a poor husband, it was me, seein' as how I couldn't convince ya what a gem ya were. I'm so sorry, baby, so sorry!"

If Trip had been more himself, he most likely would have realized that it was just Malcolm's way to start off something this important with an apology. If he had gone on to listen to the rest of the message, he would have heard Malcolm carefully enumerate the ways he had made him feel respected, valued and loved. He would have heard how Malcolm considered his example and his support to have been vital to the success of his career. He would have heard how grateful Malcolm was that he had never given up on him, had managed to break through his defenses, had helped him build a life worth living and had shared that life with him. Strangely enough, in the end, Malcolm didn't even regret the fights. He - they - had always come out stronger for their resolution. He had come to see trust as being like a muscle that needed exercise which their disagreements had provided.

If Malcolm had not been under the stress of the impending battle, perhaps it would have occurred to him that what Trip would need to hear first, in the event of his death, were the positives of their marriage. Just this once, the apology could have waited. On the other hand, considering his prior experience with a grieving Trip, perhaps he thought putting the apology first would tick Trip off enough that he would vent his anger at his loss instead of bottling it up inside. Then, and only then, could he truly appreciate and accept what he had to say of their marriage.

In any event, Trip put off hearing the rest of Malcolm's farewell message and turned instead to his personal log. Malcolm had shared his personal logs with Trip ever since his first posting as captain on the _Agincourt_. Trip had resisted the idea at first, feeling that he had forced Malcolm into trying to prove that he hadn't been reckless in space.

"Mal, this ain't necessary. I know ya wouldn't risk your ship and crew for no good reason. Yourself maybe, but not others. Ya always did your best for us on _Enterprise. _I know ya'd do the best ya could for any ship you was on. I shouldn't have thrown that in your face. I was just so aggravated. I didn't - still don't - want to lose ya, darlin'."

He remembered Malcolm's steady, thoughtful gaze and his quiet reply as he placed the data chip on his desk. "That's not why I would like you to listen to my log. Does it ever occur to you, Mr. Tucker, that I don't want to lose you, either? That even though our duties keep us apart, I would still like to share my life with you?"

Trip had eventually come to realize what an extraordinary gift Malcolm had given him. Over the years, he saw how Malcolm grew in ability and confidence as an officer as Starfleet gave him ever larger vessels and crews and ever more challenging assignments. Malcolm ran a tight ship, but a happy ship. His command style was never as easy as Trip's or Jon's, but his crews followed him out of respect for his abilities and a genuine personal regard for him. Oh, he could be Hell on wheels when the situation called for it, but it rarely did, not even when Starfleet called upon him to turn around a "troubled" ship. He stood up for his people when necessary, and they, in turn, strove to please rather than embarrass him. He enjoyed mentoring his young officers, and other captains actively sought them, particularly as weapons and tactical officers, security officers and first officers, just as they sought the top graduates of Trip's classes for their engineering sections.

Trip found he actually enjoyed reading Malcolm's tactical analyses. Malcolm always carefully considered his options, and once he formulated a plan, he stayed with it. No, Trip thought, that wasn't quite right. Battles were fluid and new opportunities often presented themselves, opportunities Malcolm was very good at exploiting. So, Malcolm's plans weren't rigid. They had a certain amount of flexibility built in. What Trip meant was that Malcolm didn't continually second guess himself. The biggest change Trip noticed, and one that pleased him immensely, was that Malcolm didn't beat himself up anymore when things went wrong. Oh, he did a careful postmortem and then readjusted his plans. As far as Trip could tell, Malcolm never made the same mistake twice, and his attitude seemed to be that if he and his people didn't succeed today, then they would tomorrow. Trip vaguely remembered hearing in some long-ago class at the Academy that that quality was what had made Ulysses Grant a great general, but he hadn't been paying close attention.

There were a couple things in Malcolm's logs that surprised him, though, especially in that first one.

"Hey, Mal, when did ya take up bein' a tour guide to the universe? I understand why ya included so much detail about the Pele'an nebula since ya had to hide in their to repair your ship after that Romulan attack, but what's with all the other star field descriptions? Ain't like we've never been there before."

"Do you remember why Grandmother Tucker left her house to us?"

"Left it to you, you mean," Trip said automatically and without malice, but he saw Malcolm stiffen and a shadow flit through his eyes. _"Why the hell did I say that? He's always considered it **our** home. OK, so he threw me out for awhile. I had it comin' for treatin' 'im the way I did. I should have been proud of 'im gettin' his own ship. Now he's taken me back and never mentions how I hurt him, but I'm still actin' like a jerk."_

"Somethin' 'bout havin' a place to sit and watch the stars when we ain't traipsin' 'round in 'em no more."

"Exactly," Malcolm said quickly. What he didn't say was that he knew he might never get the chance, but for once Trip had read the look in his eyes loud and clear.

Trip rose from behind his desk and walked around it. "So what we doin' inside jabberin' on a lovely, warm, clear night like this when we could be out there?" He offered his hand to Malcolm who took it with the sweet half smile Trip adored.

"I have no idea, Mr. Tucker."

They sat silently side by side and hand in hand as they rocked back and forth on the porch swing, each happy that they were together, each happy that the other was safe. Trip finally broke the silence. "Mal, I noticed somethin' else odd in your log."

"Something odd? Whatever do you mean, Mr. Tucker?"

"Well, I was expectin' ya to say more 'bout the weapons than ya did. Instead, ya seemed to spend an awful lot of time down in Engineerin' lookin' at the warp core. The way ya described how beautiful ya thought is was, how powerful it was, how it brought light to darkness and warmth to cold and how ya slept better when it was on-line: Damn, Mal, it was like ya were makin' love to it or somethin'. Ya sure got me revved up."

"When one is in my position, Trip, one must be discrete. I was not having an affair with the warp core. I'm much too deeply in love with a certain blond engineer with the most charmin' southron accent. Sure 'nuff, he gets my motor runnin', too." Malcolm mimicked Trip's accent and turn of phrase perfectly. "I certainly couldn't put that in my log! I'd sound like nothing so much as an adolescent schoolboy with run-away hormones. How could I expect my crew to follow me into battle if they became aware of such behavior?"

"I'll follow ya anywhere, darlin', 'specially if ya keep writin' romance novels 'bout engines."

Even in the deepening dusk, Malcolm couldn't miss the growing passion in Trip's eyes. "This revved up problem you mentioned: My limited engineering experience not related to weapons systems leads me to believe that you may be suffering from an intermix problem."

"It does, does it? Well, ya could be right 'bout that, but I was thinkin' more along the line of a problem with the injectors. Waddaya say we go in and study the problem in greater depth?"

"I thought you'd never ask, Mr. Tucker."

Malcolm's log for his final voyage was nowhere near as romantic, but not, Trip suspected, simply because he had been on board. It was as if Mal had had a premonition of his death. His last entry had spoken of his hope for victory, not just for the benefit of Earth, but for the benefit of the Federated Worlds in general. He hoped no misconduct on the part of any of his people or of the Andorians would mar their victory. He mentioned Nelson's famous message to the British fleet just prior to the battle of Trafalgar, yet he sent no such message himself. There might have been those who would have cheered it, but he knew that his people understood what he expected of them and did not need to be hit over the head with it. It was enough to simply order "Close action." And yet, in the privacy of his log, his final entry had acknowledged that "Earth expects us to do our duty, and by God's grace I shall, even to the sacrifice of my life."

The recording came to an end with Trip sitting, head in hands, sobbing. Everyone had had expectations for Malcolm to live up to, many of them unrealistic, starting with dad. Stuart had wanted his son to rise to flag rank in the Royal Navy, to be a fighting admiral in the mold of Nelson, to succeed where he had failed. He had made his love and respect contingent upon achieving those goals. He never grasped that times and objectives had changed, that only in space could Malcolm hope to exhibit "the Nelson touch." Jon had expected Malcolm to keep _Enterprise_ and its crew safe but had often blithely disregarded his recommendations much to their peril. With the best of intentions, Trip himself had expected Malcolm to put his own safety ahead of duty for the sake of their marriage. In the end, a whole world had expected Malcolm to somehow keep it safe. Malcolm just keep shouldering the burdens on his slender frame until they had crushed him from the outside and their conflicting demands had torn him apart from the inside. All Malcolm had really wanted was to be respected, valued and loved. Such simple, basic things. All Trip had wanted to do was to fulfill those needs, but he had failed time and again and would never get another chance.

He stumbled upstairs and took the case containing the flag that had covered Malcolm's coffin from his flight bag. He returned to the media room. There was already a video in the player, although he couldn't remember what they had been watching before they'd reported to the _Victory_. He hit "Play."

_It's still the same old story  
A fight for love and glory  
A case of do or die.  
The world will always welcome lovers  
As time goes by._

They'd been watching _Casablanca_. Trip hugged the flag case to his chest and cried himself to sleep.


	5. Epilogue Rest in Peace

Many thanks to my kind reviewers, particularly Sita Z. I think I've tormented Trip enough. I hope you find this a satisfying (though short) ending.

Epilogue - Rest in Peace

Trip awoke in one of the recliners in the media room in the basement. He found he still clutched the case containing the flag that had draped Malcolm's coffin just as he had done every morning for the past month. Every night he would come down here and try to find a movie that would allow him to put his grief aside for just awhile, but he hadn't found one yet. Last night, he thought _Jaws_ might do it. A good old creature feature; but no, the great white shark was just another reason Mal would have had to fear the water. Once again, he'd hugged the flag case to his chest and cried himself to sleep.

He knew that today he would have to start sorting out Malcolm's things in the den they shared as an office upstairs. There was a whole list of museums and organizations that wanted, for their collections, something - anything - that had belonged to the hero of Green 135, the vanquisher of the Romulans and the savior of Earth. He'd been inundated by requests, and despite the fact that he understood their need and that it was, in its way, a tribute to Mal, he'd gotten to the point where he saw them all as vultures. None of them seemed to remember that the hero of Green 135, the vanquisher of the Romulans and the savior of Earth was also a man who had been, still was, and always would be, the love of his life. He was terrified that when they were done there would be nothing left of Mal for him, that they would turn the warm, gentle, funny, caring, loving Mal he knew into a cold man of marble as generations of historians had done to the great Confederate commander Robert E. Lee.

He took a deep breath, pushed the door to the den open and made his way to Malcolm's desk. He thought he'd start with the books. Although just about anything ever published was available in PADD form, Malcolm had collected books on military history as a hobby. Trip took down the two closest to hand: Garrett Mattingly's book _The Armada_ and Ludovic Kennedy's book _Pursuit_ on the chase and sinking of the German battleship _Bismarck_ in World War II. They had been birthday gifts from Shran the year he had replaced T'Pol as first officer on the old _Enterprise_. Although they had shared a love of weapons, Malcolm had been the hardest of the senior officers for Shran to come to know. The books had opened a dialog between them. Shran didn't know the battles, and Malcolm had been willing to teach. Trip opened one and saw Shran's birthday inscription in his bold, flowing hand that reminded him of the script on the cola can. Then he saw the slip of paper on which, in Malcolm's small, neat, precise handwriting, was written the instruction that the book was to be given to Starfleet Lieutenant Tren Thy'lek Shran. As Trip worked, he found that Malcolm had already left instructions for the parceling out of all of his possessions that had had the most personal significance to him. Malcolm had undoubtedly done this to spare Trip pain, but it hadn't worked out that way. Trip's sadness only grew. Despite his assertion to the contrary in his farewell message, had Mal had some kind of death wish?

He was startled to see the phase pistol sitting on the desk. He had no idea how it had gotten there or how long it had been there. He didn't remember seeing it when he came in. Even worse, the safety was off, and the weapon was set on kill. Malcolm would never have left a weapon unattended like that! Trip gingerly picked it up, dialed the setting down, engaged the safety, locked the weapon in its case and then locked the case in Malcolm's desk. He took the keys, trudged into the kitchen and rummaged around in the cabinets until he found an old ice cube tray. He dropped the keys in the tray, filled the tray with water and placed it in the freezer. The weapon had been the production prototype for the first of the phase pistols Malcolm had independently designed. It was destined for the weapons collection at Starfleet's Staff College at Carlisle Barracks in Pennsylvania. Trip had to admit to a certain fascination with it and thought it best to keep it securely locked up until he could dispose of it properly.

When he looked outside, it was dark already. He really wasn't hungry, so he decided to go sit on the front porch for awhile. It was a clear, cool night. He looked up at the stars and remembered Jhamel telling him that the Aenar believed that a part of the soul returned to the heavens and became a star when a person died. "Which one are you, Mal?" he whispered.

From the porch of the house it was possible to watch the laser light show at Stone Mountain, the great granite outcropping that had a carved bas-relief of the figures of Stonewall Jackson, Robert E. Lee and Jefferson Davis and was colloquially called "The Confederate Mount Rushmore." As Trip gazed at the monument, red, white and blue lights formed the outline of a starship of the latest _Enterprise_ class, the class to which _Victory_ belonged, at one side of the monument. As the starship moved across the monument's face, it morphed into a giant eagle that flew off into the night sky when it reached the other side. Trip didn't know what music accompanied that part of the light show. He hadn't tuned the audio receiver to that channel; in fact, he hadn't turned it on at all. _Rule, Britannia!_ would have been nice he thought, but this was America, so that was highly unlikely, even on United Earth. Perhaps it was _My Country 'Tis of Thee_. Mal would have known it as _God Save the Queen._

He must have fallen asleep, he must have been dreaming, because suddenly he head a familiar voice: "Bloody hell, Trip, what were you about? Don't you ever go mucking about with that phase pistol again! It's not a toy! You're an adult and an engineer. I shouldn't have to tell you this! I didn't end up in sickbay time after bloody time after saving your bloomin' arse so you could commit suicide."

The voice softened. "I would have thought we'd settled that in the shuttlepod all those years ago. Trip, this really has to stop. Our love was the greatest joy of my life. Reeds don't beg, Trip, your know that, but I will beg of you not to remember it, and me, as the greatest pain in yours. I am fine, Trip, I truly am, and you will come to see that for yourself in time. Promise me freely that you will not expedite the occasion. Please don't make me frame this as an order. Live your life as you were meant to; that is the greatest honor you could show me. I will wait for you. I will not forget you. You have my word."

Trip awoke with a start. The starlight reflecting off the broad gold band he wore on the ring finger of his left hand caught his eye. "Bein' an old fashioned kind of guy, I promised years ago to love, honor and obey. That ain't changin' now, Mal," he murmured to himself. He moved to go into the house, but turned again at the door. They had it all wrong about that "'til death do you part" stuff. He looked up at the sky, picked out a particularly bright star and said with a smile, "Good night, darlin'. I love you, too."

He knew that tomorrow morning, he'd grab a mug of coffee and a slice of pecan pie and finally listen to the rest of Mal's farewell message. He was ready now. That night, for the first time since the events of Green 135, Trip Tucker was finally able to rest in peace.


End file.
